V 






mVING'S SKETCH-BOOK. 



PKOPLE'S EDITION. 



TH'£ 3KSTGE BOOK. 



BY WASHINGTON IRVING 




PHILADELPHIA 
J. B, LLPPINCOTT & CD. 



THE 



SKETCH-BOOK 



Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. 

d ■ 



"I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for A 
mere spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how 
tiey play their parts ; which, methinks, are diversely presented 
uutn me. as from a common theatre or scene." — Burton. 



THE AUTHOR'S REVISED EDITION. 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUMB. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT A CO. 

1873. 



/S73 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, 07 

George P. Putnam, 

9 tbe Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern Distriot tM 

New York. 



SSOUrtCE UNKNGWM 

" 1925 



CONTENTS. 



< 

PA6I 

The Author's Account op Himself 15 

The Voyage , 19 

RoscoE 28 

The Wife 37 

Rip Van Winkle 49 

EN.GLISII Writers on America » . . . . 75 

Rural Life in England 88 

The Broken Heart 98 

The Art of Book-making , 106 

A Royal Poet 116 

The Country Church 135 

The Widow and her Son .' 143 

A Sunday in London 153 

The Boar's Head Tavijrn, Eastcheap 156 

The Mutability op Literature 172 

Rural Funerals 187 

The Inn Kitchen 203 

The Spectre Bridegroom ." 206 

Westminster Abbey 229 

ctirist3ias 4 245 

The Stage-Coach 253 

Christmas Eve 262 

Christmas Day 278 

The Christmas Dinner 297 

London Antiques 316 

Little Britain 324 

Stratford-on-Avon 345 

Traits of Indian Character 371 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAoa 

Philip of Pokanoket 387 

John Bull. , 411 

y The Pkide of the Village 427 

The Angler 440 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 453 

L'Envoy 499 

^fenpix , §03 



PBEFACE TO TEE EEVISED ELlTIOiN, 




HE follo'vving papers, with two exceptions, 
were written in England, and formed but 
part of an intended series, for which I had 
made notes and memorandums. Before I could ma- 
ture a plan, however, circumstances compelled me to 
send them piecemeal to the United States, where 
they were published from time to time in portions or 
numbers. It was not my intention to publish them 
in England, being conscious that much of their con- 
tents would be interesting only to American readers, 
and, in truth, being deterred by the severity with 
which American productions had been treated by the 
British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had 
appeared in this occasional manner, they began to find 
their way across the Atlantic, and to be inserted, with 
many kind encomiums, in the " London Literary Ga- 
zette." It was said, also, that a London bookseller 
intended to publish them in a collective form. I de- 
termined, therefore, to bring them forward myself, 
that they might at least have the benefit of my su- 
perintendence and revision. I accordingly took the 
printed numbers which I had received from the United 
States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent publisher, 
from whom I had already received friendly attentions, 
and left them with him for examination, informing 



8 PREFACE. 

him, that, should he be inclined to bring them before 
the public, I had materials enough on hand for a sec- 
ond volume. Several days having elapsed without 
any communication fi'om Mr. Murray, I addressed a 
note to him, in which I construed his silence into a 
tacit rejection of my work, and begged that the num- 
bers I had left with him might be returned to me. 
The following was his reply : — 

My DEAR Sir, — 

I entreat you to believe thnt I feel truly obliged by your 
kind intentions towards me, and that I entertain tifie most un- 
feigned respect for your most tasteful talents. My house is 
completely tilled with Avorkpeople at this time, and I have 
only -an office to transact business in; and j'esterday I was 
wholly occupied, or I should have done myself the pleasure 
of seeing you. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your 
present work, it is only because t do not see that scope in the 
nature of it which would enable rae to make those satisfac- 
tory accounts between us, without which I really feel no sat- 
isfaction in engaging — but I will do all I can to promote 
their circulation, and shall be most ready to atten.d to any fu- 
ture plan of yours. 

With much regard, I remain, dear sir, 

Your faithful servant, 

Jonx Murray. 

Tliis was disheartening, and might have deterred 
me from any further prosecution of the matter, had 
the question of republication in Great Britain rested 
entirely with me ; but I apprehended the appearance 
of a spurious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archi- 
bald Constable as publisher, having been treated by 
him with much hospitality during a visit to Edinburgh ; 
but first I determined to submit my work to Sir Wal- 
ter (then Mr.) Scott, being encouraged to do so by 
the cordial reception I had experienced from him at 
Abbotsford a few years previously, and by the favor- 
able opinion he had expressed to others of my earlier 
writings. I accordingly sent him the printed num- 
bers of the Skctch-Book in a parcel by coach, and at 



PREFACE. 9 

the same time wrote to him, hinting that, since I had 
had the pleasure of partaking of his hospitality, a re- 
verse had taken place in my affairs which made the 
successful exercise of my pen all-important to me', 
I begged him, therefore, to look over the literary 
articles I had forwarded to him, and, if he thought 
they would bear European republication, to ascertain 
whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to be the 
publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to 
Scott's address in Edinburgh ; the letter went by mail 
to his residence in the country. By the very first 
post I received a reply, before he had seen my work. 

" I was doAvn at Kelso," said he, " when your letter 
reached Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, 
and will converse with Constable, and do all in my 
power to forward your views — I assure you nothing 
will give me more pleasure." 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had 
struck the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that 
practical and efficient good-will which belonged to his 
nature, he had already devised a way of aiding me. 

A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was 
about to be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the 
most respectable talents, and amply furnished with all 
the necessary information. The appointment of the 
editor, for which ample flinds were provided, would 
be five hundred pounds sterling a year, with the rea- 
sonable prospect of further advantages. This situa- 
tion, being apparently at his disposal, he fi'ankly of- 
fered to me. The work, however, he intimated, was 
to have somewhat of a political bearing, and he ex- 
pressed an apprehension that the tone it was desired 
to adopt might not suit me. " Yet I risk the ques- 
tioa/' added he, " because I know no man so well quai- 
led for this important task, and perhaps because it 



10 PREFACE. 

will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my pro- 
posal does not suit, you need only keep the mattei 
Becret, and there Is no harm done. ' And for my love 
I pray you wrong me not.* If, on the contrary, you 
think it could be made to suit you, let me know as 
Boon as possible, addressing Castle Street, Edinburgh/' 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, 
" I am just come here, and have glanced over the 
Sketch-Book. It is positively beautiful, and increases 
my desire to crimp you, if it be possible. Some di^ 
ficulties there always are In managing such a matter, 
especially at the outset ; but we will obviate them as 
much as we possibly can." 

The following is fi-om an imperfect draught of my 
reply, which underwent some modifications in the 
copy sent : — 

" I cannot express how much I am gratified by your 
letter. I had begun to feel as if I had taken an un- 
warrantable hberty ; but, somehow or other, there is a 
genial sunshine about you that warms every creeping 
thing into heart and confidence. Yom' literary propo- 
Bal both surprises and flatters me, as It evinces a much 
higher opinion of my talents than I have myself" 

I then went on to explain that I found myself 
peculiarly unfitted for the situation offered to me, not 
merely by my political opinions, but by the very con- 
stitution and habits of my mind. " My whole course 
of life," I observed, " has been desultory, and I am 
unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or any 
stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no com- 
mand of my talents, such as they are, and have to 
watch the varyings of my mind as I would those 
of a weathercock. Practice and training may bring 
me more into rule ; but at present I am as useless 
for regular service as one of my own country Indiami 
or a Don Cossack. 



PREFACE. 11 

" I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have 
begun ; writing when I can, not when I would. I 
shall occasionally shift my residence and write what- 
ever is suggested by objects before me, or whatever 
rises in my imagination ; and hope to write bettei 
and more copiously by and by. 

" I am playing the egotist, but I know no better 
way of answering your proposal than by showing what 
a very good-for-nothing kind of being I am. Should 
Mr. Constable feel inclined to make a bargain for the 
wares I have on hand, he will encourage me to further 
enterprise ; and it will be something like trading with 
a gypsy for the fruits of his prowlings, who may at one 
time have nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, and at 
another time a silver tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at 
my declining what might have proved a troublesome 
duty. He then recurred to the original subject of 
our correspondence ; entered intp a detail of the va- 
rious terms upon which arrangements were made be- 
tween authors and booksellers, that I might take my 
choice ; expressing the most encouraging confidence 
of the success of my work, and of previous works which 
I had produced in America. " 1 did no more," added 
he, " than open the trenches with Constable ; but I am 
sure if you will take the trouble to write to him, you 
will find him disposed to treat your overtures with 
every degree of attention. Or, if you think it of con- 
sequence in the first place to see me, I shall be in Lon- 
don in the course of a month, and whatever my expe- 
rience can command is'most heartily at your command. 
But I can add little to what I have said above, ex- 
cept my earnest recommendation to Constable to en 
ter into the negotiation." * 

* I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding para- 
frapih of Scott's letter, which, though it does not relate tc 



12 PREFACE. 

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, ho\^ 
ever, I had determined to look to no leading booksellei 
for a launch, but to throw ray work before the public 
at my own risk, and let it sink or swim according to 
its merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, and soon 
received a reply: — 

" I observe with pleasure that you are going to come 
forth in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way 
to pubhsh on one's own account ; for the booksellers 
set their face against the circulation of such works as 
do not pay an amazing toll to themselves. But they 
have lost the art of altogether damming up the road 
in such cases between the author and the public, which 
they were once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in 
John Bunyan's ' Holy War * closed up the windows of 
my Lord Understanding's mansion. I am sure of one 
thing, that you have only to be known to the British 
public to be admired by them, and I would not say so 
unless I really was pf that opinion. 

" If you ever see a witty but rather local publication 
called ' Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine,' you will 
find some notice of your works in the last number : 
the author is a friend of mine, to whom I have intro- 

the main subject of our correspondence, was too character- 
istic to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent Misa 
Sophia Scott small duodecimo American editions of her 
father's poems, published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes; 
showing the " nigromancy " of the American press, by which 
a quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. Scott 
observes : " In my hurry, I have not thanked you in 
Sophia's name for the kind attention which furnished her 
with the American volumes. I am not quite sure I can 
add my own, since you have made her acquainted with 
much more of papa's folly than she would ever otherwise 
have learned ; for I had "taken special care they should 
never see any of those things during their earlier years. 
I think I told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament 
with a, feather like a maypole, and indenting the pavement 
.vith a sword like a scythe — in other words, he has become 
a whiske:-sd hussar in the 18th dragoons." 



PREFACE. 13 

duced you In your literary capacity. His name is 
Lockliart, a young man of very considerable talent, 
and who will soon be intimately connected with my 
family. My faithful friend Ivnickerbocker Is to be 
next examined and illustrated. Constable was ex- 
tremely willing to enter into consideration of a treaty 
for your works, but I foresee will be still more so when 

Your name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 



And that will soon be the case. I trust to 

be in London about the middle of the month, and 
promise myself great pleasure In once again shaking 
you by the hand." 

The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put to 
press in London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by 
a bookseller unknown to fame, and without any of the 
usual arts by w^hich a work is trumpeted Into notice. 
Still, some attention had been called to it by the ex- 
tracts which had previously appeared in the " Literary 
Gazette," and by the kind word spoken by the editor 
of that periodical, and It was getting Into fair circula- 
tion, when my worthy bookseller failed before the first 
month was over, and the sale was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived In London. I called 
to him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, 
more propitious than Hercules, he put his own shoul- 
der to the wheel. Through his favorable representa- 
tions, Murray was quickly induced to undertake the 
future publication of the work which he had previous- 
ly declined. A further edition of the first volume was 
Btruck off, and the second volume was put to press, and 
from that time Murray became my publisher, conduct- 
ing himself In all his dealings with that fair, open, and 
liberal spirit which had obtained for him the well-mer- 
ited appellation of the Prince of Booksellers. 



14 



rREFA CE. 



Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sif 
Walter Scott, I began my literary career in Europe 
and I feel that I am but discharging, in a trifling de- 
gree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that 
golden-hearted man in acknowledging my obligationr 
to him, — But who of his literary contemporaries ever 
applied to him for aid or counsel that did not experi 
ence the most prompt, generous, and effectual assi^» 
ancel 

W. I. 

SUNNTSIDE, 1848. 




"^^S-^.^fll^^.^^fi 




THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF lECVISELP 

" I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that 
crept out of her shel was turned eftsoons into a toad, and 
thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on; so thetraveilei 
that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time trans- 
formed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his 
mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not 
where he would." — Lyly's Euphues. 

WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, 
and observing strange characters and 
manners. Even when a mere child I 
began my travels, and made many tours of dis- 
covery into foreign parts and unknown regions 
of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my 
parents, and the emolument of the toAvn-crier, 
As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of 
my observations. My holiday afternoons were 
spent in rambles about the surrounding country. 
I made myself familiar wit)i all its places famous 
in history or fable. I knew every spot where 
a murder or robbery had been committed, or a 
gliost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, 
and added greatly to my stock of knowledge by 
noting their habits and customs, and conversing 
with their sages and great men. I even jour 
Qeyed one long summer's day to the summit of 



16 THE SKETCE-BOOK. 

the most distant hill, whence I stretched my eye 
over many a mile of terra incognita, and was as- 
tonished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. 

Tliis rambling propensity strengthened with 
my years. Books of voyages and travels became 
my passion, and in devouring their contents, I 
neglected the regular exercises of the school. 
How mstfuUy would I wander about the pier* 
heads in fine weather, and watch the parting 
ships, bound to distant climes ; with what long . 
ing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, 
and waft myself in imagination to the ends of 
the earth ! 

Further reading and thinking, though they 
brought this vague inclination into more reason- 
able bounds, only served to make it more decided. 
I visited various parts of my own country ; and 
had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, 1 
should have felt little desu*e to seek elsewhere 
its gratification, for on no country have the 
charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. 
Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver, 
her mountains, with their bright aerial tmts ; her 
valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; her tremen 
dous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes ; her 
boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verd 
ure; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn 
silence to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where 
vegetation puts forth all its magnificence ; her 
skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds 
and glorious sunshine ; — no, never need an 
A.merican look beyond liis own country for the 
sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 17 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied 
and poetical association. There were to be seen 
the masterpiece of art, the refinements of highly 
cultivated society, the quamt peculiarities of an- 
cient and local custom. My native country was 
full of youthful promise : Europe was rich in the 
accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins 
told the history of times gone by, and every 
mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to 
wander over the scenes of renowned achieve- 
ment, — to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of 
antiquity, — to loiter about the ruined castle, — 
to meditate on the falling tower, — to escape, in 
short, from the commonplace realities of the pres- 
ent, and lose myself among the shado^vy gran- 
deurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see 
the great men of the earth. We have, it is true, 
our great men in America : not a city but has an 
ample share of them. I have mingled among 
them in my time, and been almost withered by 
the shade into which they cast me ; for there is 
nothing so baleful to a small' man as the shade 
of a great one, particularly the great man of a 
city. But I was anxious to see the great men 
of Europe ; for I had. read in tlie works of va- 
rijus philosophers, that all animals degenerated in 
America, and man among the number. A gi-eat 
man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as 
superior to a great man of America as a peak of 
the Alps to a highland of the Hudson ; and in 
this idea I was confirmed by observing the com- 
parative importance and s^velling magnitude of 
many English travellers among us, who, I was 



18 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

assured, were very little people in tlieir own 
country. I mil visit this land of wonders, 
thought I, and see the gigantic race from which 
I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have 
my roving passion gratified. I have wandered 
through different countries, and witnessed many 
of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that 
1 have studied them with the eye of a philoso- 
phei", but rather with the sauntering gaze with 
which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll 
from the window of one print-shop to another, 
caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, 
sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and 
sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it 
is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil 
in hand, and bring home tlieir portfolios filled 
with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for 
the entertainment of my friends. When, how- 
ever, I look over the hints and memorandums I 
have taken down for the purpose, my heart al- 
most fails me at finding how my idle humor has 
led me aside from the great objects studied by 
every regular traveller who would make a book. 
I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an 
unlucky landscape-paintei', who had travelled on 
the continent, but, followhig the bent of his va- 
gi'ant inclination, had sketclied in nooks, and cor- 
ners, and by-pLices. His sketch-book was accord- 
ingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and 
obscure ruins ; but he had neglected to paint St. 
Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, 
or the bay of Naples ; and had not a single 
dacicr or volcano in his whole collection. 




THE VOYAGE. 



Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting. 
And projecting, 

What 's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home Avith rich and wealthy lading. 
Halloo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? — Old r(>».i«. 

an American visiting Europe, the long 
voyage he has to make is an excellent 
preparative. The temporary absence of 
worldly scenes and employments produces a state 
of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid 
impressions. The vast space of waters that sepa- 
rates the hemispheres is like a blank page in ex- 
istence. There is no gradufd transition, by which, 
a3 in Europe, the features and population ol one 
country blend almost imperceptibly with those 
of another. From the moment you lose sight 
of the land you have left, all is vacancy until 
you step on the opposite shore, and are launched 
at once into the bustle and novelties of another 
vrorld. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of 
scene and a comiected succession of persons and 



20 THE SKETCII-BOOR. 

incidents, that carry on the story of life, and les- 
sen the effect of absence and separation. We 
drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain " at each 
remove of our pilgrimage ; but the chain is un- 
broken : we can trace it back link by link ; and 
we feel that the last still grapples us to home. 
But a wide sea-voyage severs us at once. It 
makes us conscious of being cast loose from the 
secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift 
tipon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not 
merely imaginary, but real, between us and our 
homes, — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and 
uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, and re- 
turn precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As 
1 saw the last blue line of my native land fade 
away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if 
I had closed one volume of the world and its 
concerns, and had time for meditation, before I 
opened another. That land, too, now vanishing 
from my view, which contained all most dear to 
me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it, 
what changes might take place in me, before I 
should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he 
sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven 
hj the uncertain currents of existence ; or when 
he may return ; or whether it may ever be his 
lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should cor- 
rect the expression. To one given to day-dream- 
ing, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea- 
voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but 
then they are the wonders of the deep, and of 



THE VOYAGE, 21 

the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind fi'om 
worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the 
quarter-railing, or climb to the main-top, of a 
calm day, and muse for hours together on the 
tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; to gaze upon 
the piles of golden clouds just peering above the 
horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people 
them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the 
gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver vol- 
umes, as if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled 
security and awe with which I looked down, from 
my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at 
their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tum- 
bling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus 
slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; 
or the ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, 
through the blue waters. My imagination would 
conjure up all that I had heard or read of the 
watery world beneath me ; of the finny herds 
that roam its fathomless valleys ; of the shapeless 
monsters that lurk among the very foundations of 
the earth ; and of those wild phantasms that swell 
the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge 
of the ocean, would be another theme of idle 
speculation. How interesting this fragment of a 
world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of ex- 
istence ! What a glorious monument of human 
invention ; which has in a manner triumphed 
over wind and wave; has brought the ends of 
Vhe world into communion ; has established an 
citerchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile 



22 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

regions ol' the north all the luxuries of the south ; 
has diffused the light of knowledge and the char- 
ities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound to- 
gether those scattered portions of the human race, 
between which nature seemed to have thrown an 
insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object 
drifting at a distance. At sea, everything that 
breaks the monotony of the surrounding exptmse 
attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a 
ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for 
there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which 
some of the crew had fastened themselves to this 
spar, to prevent their being washed off by the 
waves. There was no trace by which the name 
of the ship could be ascertamed. The wreck had 
evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters 
of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea- 
weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought 
I, is the crew ? Theii' struggle has long been 
over, — they have gone down amidst the roar of 
the tempest, — their bones lie whitening among 
the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like 
the waves, have closed over them, and no one 
can tell the story of their end. What sighs have 
been wafted after that ship ! what prayers offered 
up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often 
has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over 
the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence 
of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation 
darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — 
and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento 
may ever return for love to cherish. All that 



TUE VOYAGE. 23 

may ever be known, is, tliat she sailed from her 
port, " and was never heard of more ! " 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to 
many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly 
the case in the evening, when the weather, which 
had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and 
threatening, and gave indications of one of those 
Budden storms which "will sometimes break in 
upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we 
sat round the dull light of a lamp m the cabin, 
that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had 
his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was partic- 
ularly struck with a short one related by the 
captam. 

" As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine 
stout ship across the banks of Newfoundland, one 
of those heavy fogs which prevail in those parts 
rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead even 
in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so 
thick that we could not distinguish any object at 
twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at 
the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to 
look out for fishing-smacks, which are accustomed 
to he at anchor on the banks. The wind was 
blowing a smackmg breeze, and we were going 
at a great rate through the water. Suddenly the 
watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — it 
was scarcely uttered before we were upon her 
She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her 
broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, 
and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck 
her just amidships. The force, the size, and 
weight of our vessel bore her down below the 



24 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



waves ; we passed over her, and were hurried on 
our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking 
beneath^ us, I had a glimpse of two or three half- 
naked wi'etches rushing from her cabin ; they just 
started from their beds to be swallowed slirieking 
by the waves. I heard their drowning cry min- 
gling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our 
ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall 
never forget that cry ! It was some time before 
we could put the sliip about, she was under such 
headway. We returned, as nearly as we could 
guess, to the place where the smack had an- 
chored. "We cruised about for several hours in 
the dense fog. We fired signal-guns, and Hstened 
if we might hear the halloo of any survivors ; 
but all was silent — we never saw or heard any- 
thing of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end 
to all my fine fancies. The storm increased with 
the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous* 
confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of 
rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep called 
unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds 
overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of light- 
ning which quivered along the foaming billows, 
and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. 
The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of 
waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the 
mountain-waves. As I saw the ship staggering 
and plunging among these roaring caverns, it 
seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, 
or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would 
dip into the water : her bow was almost buried 



THE VOYAGE. 26 

beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending 
surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and 
nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm 
preserved her from the shock. 

When I retu-ed to my cabin, the awful scene 
Btill followed me. The whistling of the wind 
through the rigging sounded like funereal wail- 
ings. The creakmg of the masts, the straimng 
and gi'oaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored 
in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard 
the waves rusliuig along the sides of the ship, 
and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if 
Death were raging round this floating prison, 
seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, 
the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and 
favoiing breeze, soon put all these dismal reflec- 
tions to flight. It is impossible to resist the glad- 
dening influence of fine weather and fair wind at 
sea. Wlien the ship is decked out in all her can- 
vas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over 
the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she ap- 
pears — how she seems to lord it over the deep ! 

I might fill a volume vnth the reveries of a 
sea-voyage, for with me it is almost a continual 
reverie, — but it is time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thiilling 
cry of " land ! " was given from the mast-head 
None but those who have experienced it can form 
on idea of the delicious throng of sensations 
i\-hich rush into an Americans bosom, when he 
first comes in sight of Europe. There is a vol- 
ame of associations with the very name. It is 



26 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the land of promise, teeming with everything of 
which his childhood has heard, or on which his 
Rtudious years have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it 
was all feverish excitement. The ships-of-war, 
that prowled like guardian giants along the coast ; 
the headlands of Ireland, stretchmg out into the 
channel ; the Welsh mountains, towering into the 
clouds ; all were objects of intense interest. As 
we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred tlie 
Bhores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with de- 
light on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies 
and green grass plots. I saw the mouldering 
ruui of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper 
Bpire of a village church rising from the brow of 
a neighboring hill ; — all were characteristic of 
England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the 
ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It 
was thronged mth people : some, idle lookers-on ; 
others, eager expectants of friends or relatives. 
I could distinguish the merchant to whom the 
ship was consigned. I knew him by his calcu- 
lating brow and restless air. His hands were 
tlii'ust into his pockets ; he was whistling thought- 
fully, and walking to and fro, a small space hav- 
ing been accorded him by the crowd, in defer- 
ence to his temporary importance. There were 
repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged 
between the shore and the ship, as friends hap- 
pened to recognize each other. I particularly 
noticed one young woman of humble dress, but 
intcrestino; demeanor. She was lo9ning forward 



THE VOYAGE. 27 

fi'om among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the 
sliip as it uearcd the shore, to catcli some wished 
for countenance. She seemed disappomted and 
agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call hei 
name. It was from a poor sailor who had been 
ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy 
of every one on board. When the weather was 
fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him 
on deck m the shade ; but of late his illness had 
so increased, that he had taken to his hammock, 
and only breathed a wish that he might see his 
wife before he died. He had been helped on 
deck as we came up the river, and was now lean- 
ing agamst the shrouds, with a countenance so 
wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder 
even the eye of affection did not recognize him. 
But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on 
his features : it read, at once, a whole volume of 
sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint 
shriek, and stood wrmgmg them in silent agony. 
AU now was hurry and bustle. The meetings 
of acquamtances — the greeting cf friends — the 
consultations of men of busmess. I alone was 
solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no 
cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of 
my forefathers — but felt that I was a strangf)* 
m the laud. 



28 TEE SKETCE-BOOK 



ROSCOE. 



In the service of mankind to be 




A guardian god below; still to employ 

The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 

Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, 

And make us shine forever — that is life. — TnOMseM 

: NE of the first places to which a stranger 
13 is taken in Liverpool is the Athenaeum. 
It is established on a liberal and judi- 
cious plan ; it contains a good library, and spa- 
cious reading-room, and is the great literary re- 
Bort of the place. Go there at what hour you 
may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-look- 
ing personages, deeply absorbed in the study of 
newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, 
my attention was attracted to a person just enter- 
ing the room. He was advanced in life, tall, and 
of a form that might once have been command- 
ing, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps 
by. care. He had a noble Roman style of counte- 
nance ; a head that would have pleased a painter ; 
and though some slight furrows on his brow 
showed that wasting thought had been busy there, 
yet his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic 
Boul. There was something in his whole appear^ 



■ROSCOE. 29 

ance tliaf indicated a being of a different order 
from the bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it 
was Roscoe. I di^ew back with an involuntary 
feeling of veneration. This, then, was an author 
of cebbrity ; this was one of those men whose 
voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth, 
with whose minds I have communed even in the 
solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in 
our country, to know European writers only by 
their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of 
other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, 
and jostling with the crowd of common minds in 
the dusty paths of life. They pass before our im- 
aginations like superior beings, radiant mth the 
emanations of their genius, and surrounded by a 
halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the 
Medici mingling among the busy sons of traffic, 
at first shocked my poetical ideas ; but it is from 
the very circumstances and situation in which he 
has been placed, that ]Mi\ Roscoe derives his high- 
est claims to admiration. It is interesting to no- 
tice how some minds seem almost to create them- 
selves, springing up under every disadvantage, 
and working their solitary but irresistible way 
through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to 
delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, 
with which it would rear legitimate dulness to 
maturity, and to glory in the vigor and luxuri- 
ance of her chance productions. Slie scatters the 
seeds of genius to the winds ; and though some 
may perish among the stony places of the world, 



80 THE SKETCU-BOOK 

and some be choked by the thorns and brambles 
of cai'ly £idversity, yet others will now and then 
strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle 
bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their 
sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. 
Boru in a place apparently ungenial to the growth 
of literary talent ; m the very market - place of 
trade ; without fortune, family connections, or 
patronage ; self-prompted, self-sustained, and al- 
most self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, 
achieved his way to eminence, and, having become 
one of the ornaments of the nation, has turned 
the whole force of his talents and influence to 
advance and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character 
which has given him the greatest interest in my 
eyes, and induced me particularly to point him 
out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his liter- 
ary merits, he is but one among the many distin- 
gidshed authors of this intellectual nation. They, 
however, in general, live but for their own fame, 
or their OAvn pleasures. Their private history 
presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a 
humiliating one of human frailty and inconsist- 
ency. At best, they are prone to steal away from 
the bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; 
to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease ; and 
to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive, enjoy- 
ment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none 
of the accorded privileges of talent, lie has shut 
himself up in no gai'den of thought, nor elysiuni 



JiOSCO/'J. 31 

of fancy, but has gone forth hito the highways 
and thoroughfares of Ufe ; he has pUmted bowers 
by the wayside, for the refresliment of the pilgrhn 
and the sojourner, and hiis opened pure fountains, 
where the laboring man may turn aside from the 
dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living 
stivams of knowledge. There is a "daily beauty 
in Iiis life," on which mankind may meditate and 
grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost use- 
less, because inimitable, example of excellence, 
but presents a picture of active, yet simple and 
imitable virtues, which are within every man's 
reach, but which, unfortunately, are not exercised 
by many, or this world would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the 
attention of the citizens of our young and busy 
country, where literature and the elegant arts 
must grow up side by side with the coarser plants 
of daily necessity, and nuist depend for their cul- 
ture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and 
wealth, nor the quickening rays of titled patron- 
age, but on hours and seasons snatched from the 
pursuit of worldly interests, by intelh'gent and 
public-spii'ited individuals. 

lie has sho^\ni how much may be done for a 
place in hours of leisure by one master-spirit, and 
how completely it can give its o^vn impress 1o 
surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo de' 
jNIedici, on whom he seems to liave fixed Lis eye 
as on a pure model of antiquity, he has inter- 
woven the history of his life with the history of 
his native town, and has made the foundations of 
Its f{\me the moimments of his virtues. Wher- 



82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ever you go in Liverpool, you perceive traces of 
his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. 
He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in 
the channels of traffic ; he has diverted from it 
invigorating rills to refresh the garden of litera- 
ture. By his own example and constant exer- 
tions he has effected that imion of commerce and 
intellectual pursuits so eloquently recommended 
in one of his latest writings * and has practically 
proved how beautifully they may be brought to 
harmonize, and to benefit each other. The noble 
institutions for literary and scientific purposes, 
which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are 
givuig such an impulse to the public mind, have 
mostly been originated, and have all been eflfec- 
tively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe ; and when we 
consider the rapidly increasing opulence and mag- 
nitude of that town, which promises to vie in 
commercial importance with the metropolis, it will 
be perceived that in awakening an ambition of 
mental improvement among its inhabitants he 
has effected a great benefit to the cause of Brit- 
ish literature. 

In America we know Mr. Roscoe only as the 
author ; in Liverpool he is spoken of as the bank- 
er ; and I was told of his having been unfortunate 
in business. I could not pity him, as I heard 
some rich men do. I considered him far above 
the reach of pity. Those who live only for the 
world, and in the world, may be cast down by 
the frowns of adversity, but a man like Roscoe 
is not to be overcome by the reverses of fortune. 
* Address on the oj: -jning of the Liverpool Institution. 



ROaCOE. 33 

They do but drive him iu upon the resources of 
his own mind, to the superior society of his own 
thoughts, which the best of men are apt some- 
times to neglect, and to roam abroad m search of 
less worthy associates. He is independent of the 
world ai'ound him. He lives with antiquity and 
posterity : with antiquity, in the sweet communion 
of studious retirement ; and with posterity, m the 
generous aspirings after future renown. The sol- 
itude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoy- 
ment. It is then visited by those elevated med- 
itations which are the proper aliment of noble 
souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in 
the wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, 
it wjis my fortune to light on further traces of 
Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, 
to view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned 
off, through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. 
After riding a short distance, we came to a spa- 
cious mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian 
style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had 
an ah* of elegance, and the situation was delightful. 
A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with 
clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft 
fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The 
Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet sheet of 
water tlu-ough an expanse of green meadow-land ; 
while i\\Q Welsh mountauis, blended with clouds, 
and melting into distance, bordered the horizon. 

This Avas Roscoe's favorite residence during 
the days of his prosperity. It had been the seat 
of elegant hospitality and literary retirement. 



84 THE SKETCU-BOOK. 

The house was now silent and deserted. I saw 
the windows of the study, which looked out upon 
the soft scenery I have mentioned. The Avindows 
were closed — the library was gone. Two or 
three ill-favored beings were loitering about the 
place, whom my fancy pictured into retauiera 
of the law. It was like visiting some classic 
fountain, that had once welled its pure waters in 
a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with 
the lizard and the toad brooding over the shat- 
tered marbles. 

I uiquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's li- 
brary, which had consisted of scarce and foreign 
books, from many of which he had drawn the 
materials for his Italian histories. It had passed 
under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was 
dispersed about the country. The good people 
of the vicinity tlironged like Avi*eckers to get some 
part of the noble vessel that had been driven on 
shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous asso- 
ciations, we might imagine something whimsical 
m this strange irruption in the regions of learn- 
ing. Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, 
and contending for the possession of weapons 
which tliey could not wield. We might pictm'e 
to ourselves some knot of speculators, debating 
with calculating brow over the quaint binding 
and illuminated margin of an obsolete author; 
of the air of intense but baffled sagacity with 
which some successful purchaser attempted to 
dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautifiil incident in the story of Mr. 
Roscoe's misfortunes, and one which cannot fail 



ROSCOE. 35 

to interest the studious mind, that the parting 
with his books seems to have touched upon his 
teiiderest feelings, and to have been the only cir- 
eiunstance that could provoke the notice of his 
muse. The scholar only knows how dear these 
silent yet eloquent companions of pure thoughts 
and innocent hours become in the seasons of 
adversit}'. When all that is worldly turns to 
dross around us, these only retain their steady 
value. When friends grow cold, and the converse 
of intimates languishes into vapid civility and 
commonplace, these only continue the unaltered 
countenance of happier days, and cheer us mth 
that true friendship A\hich never deceived hope 
nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the 
people of Liverpool had been properly sensible of 
what was due to Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his 
library would never have been sold. Good worldly 
reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circum- 
stance, which it would be difficult to combat with 
others that might seem merely fanciful ; but it 
certainly appears to me such an opportunity as 
seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind strug- 
gling under misfortunes, by one of the most deli- 
cate but most expressive tokens of public sympa- 
thy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of 
genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He 
becomes mingled and confounded with other men. 
His great qualities lose their novelty ; we become 
too familiar with the common materials wliicb 
form the basis even of the loftiest chara(jter. 
Some of I\Ir. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him 
merely as a man of business ; others, as a polili- 



36 TUE iSKETCU-BOOK. 

ciau ; all find him engaged like themselves in or- 
dinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by 
themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. 
Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity 
of character, which gives the nameless grace to 
real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued 
by some coarse minds, who do not know that true 
worth is always void of glare and pretension. 
But the man of letters, who speaks of Liverpool, 
speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe. The 
intelligent traveller who visits it inquires where 
Roscoe is to be seen. He is the literary land- 
mark of the place, indicating its existence to the 
distant scholar. He is, like Pompey's column at 
Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe 
to his books on parting with them, is alluded to 
in 'the preceding article. If anything can add 
etfect to the pure feeling and elevated thought 
here displayed, it is the conviction that the whole 
is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript 
from the wi'iter's heart. 

TO MY BOOKS, 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile 

And tempers as he may afliictioii's dart ; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 
Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten ^xery toil, 

I now resign you; nor with fainting heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to nart no more 




THE WIFE. 



The treasurep of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth 
The violet bed 's not sweeter. — Middleton. 




HAVE often had occasion to remark the 
fortitude with which women sustain the 
most overwhelming reverses of fortune. 
Those disasters which break down the spirit of a 
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call 
forth all the energies of tlte softer sex, and give 
Buch intrepidity and elevation to their character, 
that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing 
can be more touching than to behold a soft and 



88 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tender female, who had been all weakness and 
dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, 
while treading the prosperous paths of life, sud- 
denly rising in mental force to be the comforter 
and support of her husband under misfortune, 
and abidmg with unshrinking firmness the bitter- 
est blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its gi-aceful 
foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into 
sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by 
the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing 
tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs, so is 
it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, 
who is the mere dependent and ornament of man 
in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace 
when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding her- 
self into ihe rugged recesses of his nature, ten- 
derly supporting the drooping head, and binding 
up the broken heart. 

I was unce congratulating a friend, who had 
around him a blooming family, knit together in 
the strongest affection. "I can wish you no 
better lot/' said he, with enthusiasm, " than to 
have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, 
there they are to share your prosperity ; if other- 
wise, there they are to comfort you." And, in- 
deed, I have observed that a married man falling 
into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situa- 
tion in the world than a single one ; partly be- 
?mise he is more stimulated to exertion by the 
necessities of the helpless and beloved beings wlio 
depend upon him for subsistence, but chiefly be- 
cause his spirits are soothed and relieved by 



THE WIFE. 89 

domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept 
alive by finding, that, though all abroad is dark- 
ness and humiliation, yet there is still a little 
world of love at home, of which he is the mon- 
arch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to 
waste and self-neglect, — to fancy himself lonely 
and alandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like 
some deserted mansion, for want of an inhab- 
itant. 

These observations call to mmd a little domes- 
tic story, of which I was once a witness. My 
intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful 
and accomplished girl, who had been brought up 
hi the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is 
true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample 
and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging 
her in every elegant pursuit, and administering 
to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a 
kind of witchery about the sex. — " Her Ufe,'* 
said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." 

Tiie very difference in their characters pro- 
duced an harmonious combination : he was of a 
romantic and somewhat serious cast ; she was all 
life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute 
rapture with which he would gaze upon her in 
company, of which her sprightly powers made 
her the delight ; and how, in the midst of ap- 
plause, her eye would still turn to him, as if tliere 
alone she sought favor and acceptance. Wlien 
leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted 
finely with his tall, manly person. The fond, con- 
fiding air with which she looked up to him seemed 



40 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and 
chorisliing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely 
burden for its very helplessness. Never did a 
couple set forward on the flowery patli of early 
and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect 
of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, 
to have embarked his property in large specula- 
tions ; and he had not been married many months, 
when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was 
swept from him, and he found himself reduced 
almost to penury. For a time he kept his situa- 
tion to himself, and went about with a haggard 
countenance and a breaking heart. His life was 
but a protracted agony; and what rendered it 
more insupportable was the necessity of keeping 
up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he 
could not bring himself to overwhelm hei with 
the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes 
of affection, that all was not well with him. She 
marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and 
was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid 
attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her 
sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win 
him back to happmess ; but she only drove the 
arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw 
cause to love her, the more torturing was tbo 
thought that he w^as soon to make her wi-etched. 
A little while, thought he, and the smile will van- 
ish from that cheek — the song will die away 
from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be 
quenched with sorrow; and the happy heart, 



THE WIFE. 41 

which noAv beats lightly in that bosom, will be 
weighed doAvii, like mine, by the cares and mis- 
eries of the world. 

At length he came to mo one day, and related 
I lis whole situation in a tone of the deepest dC' 
spair. When I heard him tlu"ough I inquircf^ 
" Does yom* ^\dfe know all this ? " — At tlie ques- 
tion he burst into an agony of tears. " For God's 
sake ! " cried he, " if you have any pity on me, 
don't mention my wife ; it is the thought of her 
that drives me almost to madness ! " 

"And why not ? " said I. " She must know it 
ftooner or later : you caimot keep it long from her, 
and the intelligence may break upon her in a 
more startling manner than if imparted by your- 
self ; for i\\Q accents of those we love soften the 
harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving 
yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and 
not merely that, but also endangering the only 
bond that can keep hearts together, — an unre- 
served community of thought and feeling. She 
will soon perceive that something is secretly prey- 
ing upon your mind ; and true love will not brook 
reserve ; it feels undervalued and outraged when 
even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed 
from it." 

" Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I 
am to give to all her future prospects, — how I 
am to strike her very soul to the earth by telling 
her that her husband is a beffjirar ! that she is lo 
forego all the elegances of life — all the pleasures 
jf society — to shrink with me into indigence 
and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged 



42 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

her down from the sphere in which she might 
have continued to move in constant brightness — 
the light of every eye — the admiration of every 
heart ! How can she bear poverty ? she has been 
brought up in all the refinements of opulence. 
How can she bear neglect? she has been the 
idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it 
will break her heart ! " 

T saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have 
its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. 
Wiien his paroxysm had subsided, and he had 
relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject 
gently, and urged him to break his situation at 
once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, 
but positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her ? It is 
necessary she should know it, that you may take 
the steps proper to the alteration of your cir- 
cumstances. You must change your style of liv- 
big — nay," observing a pang to pass across his 
countenance, "don't let that afflict you. I am 
sure you have never placed your happiness in 
outward show, — you have yet friends, warm 
fri(!nds, who will not think the worse of you for 
being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does 
not require a palace to be happy with Mary " — 

" I could be happy with her," cried he, convul- 
sively, "in a hovel ! I could go down with her 
into poverty and the dust .' I could — I could — 
God bless her ! — God bless her ! " cried he, burst- 
ing into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said T, stepping 
up, and grasping liim warmly by the hand, ' be- 



rnE WIFE. 43 

lieve me, she can be the same with you. Ay, 
more : it will be a source of pride and triumph 
to her, — it will call forth all the latent energies 
and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she 
will rejoice to prove that she loves you for your- 
self. There is m every true woman's heart a 
spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the 
broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles 
up, and beams, and blazes in the dark hour of ad 
versity. No man knows what the Avife of his 
bosom is — no man knows what a ministering 
angel she is — until he has gone with her througli 
the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my 
manner, and the figurative style of my language, 
that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I 
knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and follow- 
ing up the impression I had made, I finished by 
persuading him to go home and unburden his sad 
heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, 
I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who 
can calculate on the fortitude of one whose life 
has been a round of pleasures ? Her gay spirits 
might revolt at the dark, downward path of low 
humility suddenly pointed out before her, and 
miglit cling to the sunny regions in which tliey 
had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in flishion- 
able life is accompanied by so many galling mor- 
tifications, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. 
In shoi't, I could not m(;et Leslie the next morn- 
ing without trepidation. He had made the dis- 
closure. 



44 THE SKETCFl-IiOOK. 

" And how did she bear it ? " 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a re- 
lief to her mind, for she threw her arms round 
my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately 
made me unhappy. — But, poor girl," added he, 
" she cannot realize the change we must undergo. 
She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract ; 
she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied 
to love. She feels as yet no privation ; she suf- 
fers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor ele- 
gances. When we come practically to experi- 
ence its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty 
humiliations — then will be the real trial." 

" But," said I, " now that you have got over 
the severest task, that of breaking it to her, the 
sooner you let the world into the secret the better. 
The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then it is 
a single misery, and soon over : whereas you 
otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in 
the day. It is not poverty so much as pretence 
that harasses a ruined man — the struggle be- 
tween a proud mind and an empty purse — the 
keeping up a hollow show that must soon come 
to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and 
you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On 
this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. Ho 
had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she 
was only anxious to conform to their altered for- 
tunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the 
evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, 
and taken a small cottage in the country, a few 
miles from town. He had been busied all day 



THE WIFE. 45 

in sending out furniture. The new establishmeiil 
re(iuireil lew articles, and those of the simplest 
kind. All the splendid furniture of his late res* 
idence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. 
Tiiat, he said, was too closely associated with the 
idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of 
their loves j for some of the sweetest moments of 
their courtship were those when he had leaned 
over that instrument, and listened to the meltuig 
tones of her voice. I could not but smile at 
this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting 
husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where 
his wife had been all day superintending its ar- 
rangement. IVIy feelings had become strongly 
interested in the progress of this family story, 
and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accom- 
pany him. 

He was wearied Avitli the fatigues of the day, 
and, as he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy 
musing. 

'' Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy 
sigh, from his lips. 

" And what of her ? " asked I : " has anything 
happened to her ? " 

" What," said he, dartmg an impatient glance, 
" is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situa- 
tion — to be caged in a miserable cottage — to 
be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns 
■)f her \\Tetched habitation ? " 

" Has she then repined at the change ? " 

" Repined ! she has been nothuig but sweetness 



46 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and good-humor. Indeed, she seems in better 
Bpmts than I have ever known her ; she has been 
to me all love, and tend(}rness, and comfort ! " 

" Admu-able girl ! " exclaimed I. " You call 
yourself poor, my friend; you never were so 
rich, — you never knew the boundless treasures 
of excellence you possess in that woman." 

" Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at 
the cottage were over, I think I could then be 
comfortable. But this is her first day of real ex- 
perience ; she has been introduced into a humble 
dwelling, — she has been employed all day in ar- 
ranging its miserable equipments, — she has, for 
the first time, known the fatigues of domestic 
employment, — she has, for the first time, looked 
round her on a home destitute of everything 
elegant — almost of everything convenient; and 
may now be sitting do"wai, exhausted and spiritless, 
brooding over a prospect of future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this pic- 
ture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on 
in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow 
lane, so thickly shaded with forest-trees as to 
give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in 
sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in 
its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and 
yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine 
had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage j 
ft few trees threw their branches gracefully over 
it ; and I observed several pots of flowers taste 
nilly disposed about the door, and on the grass- 



THE wifp:. 47 

plot in front. A small wicket gate opened uj)Oii 
a footpath that wound through some shrubbery tc 
the door. Just as we approached, \ve heard the 
sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we 
paused and listened. It was Mary's voice sing 
ing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, 
a little air of which her husband was peculiarly 
fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He 
stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His 
step made a noise on the gravel-walk. A bright, 
beautiful face glanced out at the window and 
vanished — a light footstep was heard — and 
Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was 
in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few ^vild 
flowers were twisted hi her fine hair ; a fresh 
bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance 
beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look 
so lovely. 

" My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad 
you are come ! I have been watching and watch- 
ing for you ; and rmming down the lane, and 
looking out for you. I 've set out a table under 
a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I 've been 
gathering* some of the most delicious strawberries, 
for I know you are fond of them — aiid we have 
such excellent cream — ■ and everything is so 
sweet and still here — oh ! " said she, putting 
her arm within his, and looking up brightly in 
his face, '' oh, we shall be so happy ! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to 
his bosom — he folded his arms romid her — he 
kissed her again and again — he could not speak. 



48 



2 HE SKETCU-BOOK. 



but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has 
often assured me, that, though the world has since 
gone prosperously with him, and his life has, in- 
deed, been a happy one, yet never has he expe- 
rienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. 




RIP VAN WINKLE. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 

A FOSTHDMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICU KNICKERBOCKBR 



By Woilen, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Weusday, that is Wodensday. 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre CartwriQIIT. 

[The following: Tale was found among the papers of the 
late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New 
York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the 
province, and the manners of the descendants from its 
primitive settlers. Ilis historical researches, however, did 
not lie so much among books as among men ; fur the for- 
mer are lamentably scant}"" on his favorite topics ; whereas 
he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich 
in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. When- 
ever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, 
snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmiiouse, under a spread- 
ing sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of 
black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the prov- 
ince during the reign of the Dutch governors, which ho pub- 
lished some years since. There have been various opinions 
as to the liferary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, 
it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its 
St rupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned oil 
it? first appearance, but has since been completely estib- 
li»bed ; and it is now admitted into all historical collections 
as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his 
work; and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do mucli 
harm to his memory to say that his time might have been 
much belter employed in weightier labors. He, hoAvever, was 
apt 10 ride his hobby his own way ; and though it did now 
and then kick up the dust a little in tho eyes of his neighbors, 
and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the tru- 
est deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are ro- 

4 



50 riTE SKETCU-DOOK. 

membered " more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to 
be snspected that he never intended to injure or otTend. Bat 
however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still 
held dear by many folk whose good opinion is well worth 
having ; particularly by certain biscnit-bakers, who have gone 
BQ far as to imprint his likeness on their New-Year cakes; and 
have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal 
to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queea 
Anne's Farthing.] 

^I^IIOEVER has made a voyage up the 
^^^ ^ Hudson must remember the Kaatskill 
'^M mountains. They are a dismembered 
branch of the great Appalachian family, and are 
Been away to the west of the river, swelling up 
to a noble height, and lording it over the surround- 
ing country. Every change of season, every 
change of weather, indeed, every hour of the 
day, produces some change ui the magical hues 
and shapes of these mountains, and they are re- 
garded by all the good wives, far and near, a3 
perfect barometers. When the weather is fair 
and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, 
and print their bold outlines on the clear evening 
sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the land- 
scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of 
gray vapors about their summits, which, in the 
last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light 
up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voy- 
ager may have descried the light smoke curling 
u}) from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam 
among the trees, just where the blue tints of the 
upland melt away into the fresh green of tlie 
nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great 
antiquity, having been founded by some of the 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 51 

Dutch colonists in the early times of the prov 
ince, just about the beginning of the govern- 
ment of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest 
ill peace !) and there were some of the houses of 
i he original settlers standing within a few years, 
l.)uilt of small yellow bricks bi'onght from Hol- 
land, liaving latticed windows and gable fronts, 
^luniounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very 
liouses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly 
time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived, many 
years since, while the country was yet a province 
of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of 
the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descend- 
ant of the Van Wmkles who figured so gallantly 
in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and 
accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. 
He inherited, however, but little of the martial 
character of his ancestors. I have observed that 
lie was a simple, good-natured man ; he was, 
moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, hen- 
pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circum- 
stance might be owing that meekness of spirit 
which gained him such universal popnlarity ; for 
those men are most apt to be obsequious and con- 
ciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of 
shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are 
rendered pliant and i/ialleable in the fiery furnace 
0^ domestic tribulation ; and a curtiCin-lecture is 
worth all the sermons in the world for teaching 
the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A 
termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, 
be considered a tolci-able blessing ; and if so. Rip 
Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 



52 TUE SKETCIl-BUOK. 

Certain it is, tliat he was a great favorite 
among all the good wives of the village, who, as 
usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all 
family squabbles ; and never failed, whenever 
they talked those matters over in their evening 
gossiphigs, to lay all the blame on Dame Van 
AViukle. The children of the village, too, would 
shout with joy whenever he approached. lie 
assisted Jit their sports, made their playthings, 
taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and 
told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Li- 
dians. Whenever he went dodging about the 
village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, 
hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, 
and playing a thousand tricks on him with impu- 
nity ; and not a dog would bark at him tln-oughout 
the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an 
insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable 
labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity 
or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, 
with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, 
and fish all day without a murmur, even though 
he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. 
He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder 
for hours together, trudging through woods and 
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a 
few Sfpiirrels or wild pigeons. He would never 
refuse to assist a neighbor even in the rougliest 
*oil, and was a foremost man at all country frolica 
for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences ; 
the women of the village, too, used to employ 
him to run their errands, and to do such little 



Rir \ AN WINKLE. 5B 

odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not 
do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to at^ 
tend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to 
doing flimily duty, and keeping his farm in order, 
he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work 
on his farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece 
of ground in the whole country ; everything 
about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in 
spite of him. His fences were continually falling 
to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, or get*;^ 
among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow 
quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain 
always made a point of setting in just as he had 
some out-door work to do ; so that though his pat- 
rimonial estate had dwindled away under his man- 
agement, acre by acre, until there was little more 
left than a mere patch of Indian com and pota- 
toes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the 
neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as» 
if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an 
urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to 
inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his 
father. He was generally seen trooping like a 
colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of 
his fiither's cast-off galligaskins, which he had 
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady 
ioes her train in bad weather. ^^ 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those 
happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, 
who take the world easy, eat white bread or 
brown, whichever can be got with least thought 



54 rUE SKETCn-BOOK. 

or trouble, and would rather starve on a peniiy 
than work for a pound. If left to himself, he 
would have whistled life away in perfect content 
ment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in 
his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and 
the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, 
noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, 
and everything he said or did was sure to produce 
a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but 
one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, 
and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. 
He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast 
up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, al- 
ways provoked a fresh volley from his wife ; so 
that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take 
to the outside of the house — the only side whicli, 
in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, 
who was as much hen-pecked as his master ; for 
Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions 
in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an 
evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so 
often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit 
befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous 
an animal as ever scoured the woods ; but what 
courage can withstand the ever-during and all- 
besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The mo- 
ment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his 
tail drooped to the gi-ound, or curled between his 
legs, he sneaked about with a galloAVS air, casting 
many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, 
and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle 
tie would fly to the door with yelping precipita- 
tion. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 55 

Times grew worse and worse witli Rip Van 
Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tar* 
temper never mellows with age, and a sharp 
tongue is the only edged tool tliat grows keener 
with constant use. For a long while he used to 
console himself, when driven from home, by fre- 
queuthig a kind of perpetual club of the sages, 
pliilosophers, and other idle personages of the vil- 
lage, which held its sessions on a bench before a 
email inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of 
His Majesty George the Third. Here they used 
to sit in the shade through a long, lazy summer's 
day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or tell- 
ing endless sleepy stories about nothing. But 
it would have been worth any statesman's money 
to have heard the profound dif^cussions that some- 
times took place, when by cliance an old news- 
paper fell into their hands from some passing 
traveller. How solemnly they would listen to 
the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van 
Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little 
man, who was not to be daunted by the most 
gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely 
they would deliberate upon public events some 
months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely 
controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the 
village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of 
which he took his seat from raornino^ till niorht, 
just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep 
ill the shade of a large tree ; so that the neigh- 
bors could tell the hour by his movements as 
Accurately as hj a su-i-dial. It is true he was 



56 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe in 
cessaiitly. His adherents, however (for every 
great man has his adherents), perfectly under- 
stood him, and knew how to gather his opinions^ 
When any tiling that was read or related dis- 
pleased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe 
veliemeutly, and to send forth short, frequent, and 
angry puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale 
the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in 
light and placid clouds ; and sometimes, taking 
the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant 
vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his 
head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip 
was at length routed by his termagant wife, who 
would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity 
of the assemblage and call the members all to 
naught ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas 
Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of 
this terrible virago, who charged him outright 
with encouraging her husband in habits of idle- 



Poor Ivip was at last reduced almost to despair ; 
and his only alternative, to escape from the labor 
of the fiirm and clamor of his wife, was to take 
gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. 
Here he would sometimes seat himself at the 
foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet 
with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow- 
sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," he would 
Bay, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; 
but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shall 
never want a friend to stand by thee 1 " Wolf 



RrP VAX ]VIXKLL 57 

would wag his tail, look wistfully In his master'? 
race; and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe 
he reciprocated tlie sentiment witli all his heart. 

In a long ramble of tlie kind on a fine autum- 
nal day, Rip had unconsciously sci'ambled to on* 
of^'the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains 
fie was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shoot- 
ing, and the still solitudes had echoed and re- 
echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting 
and fatigued, he threw himself, lat^ in the after- 
noon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain 
herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. 
From an opening between the trees he could 
overlook all the lower country for many a mile 
of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the 
lordly Pludson, far, far below him, moving on its 
silent but majestic course, ^vith the reflection of 
a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here 
and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at 
last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep 
mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the 
bottom filled with fragments from the impending 
cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays 
of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay mus- 
ing on this scene ; evening was gradually advan- 
cing ; the mountains began to throw their long 
blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it 
would be dark long before he could reach the vil- 
Jage, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought 
«f encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice 
from a distance, hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle 



5S TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Rip Van Winkle ! " He looked round, but ctDuId 
see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight 
across the mountain. He tliought his fancy must 
have deceived liim, and turned again to descend, 
when he heard the same cry ring through the still 
evening air : " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Win- 
kle ! " — at the same time Wolf bristled up his 
back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his mas- 
ter's side, looking fearfully down uito the glen. 
Rip now felty^a vague apprehension stealing over 
him ; he looked anxiously in the same direction, 
and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up 
the rocks, and bending under the weight of some- 
thing he carried on his back. He was surprised 
to see any human being in this lonely and unfre- 
quented place ; but supposing it to be some one 
of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, 
he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised 
at the singularity of tlie stranger's appearance. 
He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick 
bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was 
of the antique Dutch fashion, — a cloth jerkiii 
strapped round the waist — several pair of breech- 
es, the outer one of ample volume, decorated 
with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches 
at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout 
keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made sign;S 
for Rip to approach and assist him with the 
bad, Though rather shy and distrustful of this 
new acquaintance. Rip complied with his usual 
alacrity ; and mutually relieving one another, they 
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently tlie dry 



RIP TvliV WINKLE. 59 

bed of a mountain torrent. As> tliey ascended, 
Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, 
like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of 
a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty roclis, 
toward, which their rugged path conducted. He 
paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the 
muttering of one of those transient thunder- 
showers which often take place in mountain 
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ra- 
vine, they came to a hollow, like a small am- 
phitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular preci- 
pices, over the brinks of which impending trees 
shot their branches, so that you only caught 
gUmpses of the azure sky and the bright evening 
cloud. During the whole time Rip and his com- 
panion had labored on in silence ; for thougli the 
former marvelled greatly what could be the object 
of carrying a keg of hquor up this wild moun- 
tain, yet there was something strange and uicom- 
prehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe 
and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of 
wonder presented themselves. On a level spot- 
in the centre was a company of odd-looking per- 
sonages playing at ninepins. They were dressed 
in a quaint, outlandish fashion ; some wore short 
doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their 
belts, and most of them had enormous breechea, 
of similar style with that of the guide's. Their 
visages, too, were pecidiar : one had a large beard, 
broad face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of 
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and 
was surmciinted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set 



60 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

off with a little red cock*s tail. They all hod 
beards, of various shapes and colors. There was 
one who seemed to be the commander. He wjis 
a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten coun- 
tenance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and 
hanger, higli crowned hat and feather, red stock- 
ings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. 
The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in 
an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie 
Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had 
been brought over from Holland at the time of 
the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that, 
though these folks were evidently amusing them- 
selves, yet they mamtained the gravest faces, the 
most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the 
most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever 
witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of 
the scene but the noise of the balls, which, when- 
ever they were rolled, echoed along the moun- 
tains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, 
they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared 
at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such 
strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that 
his heart turned within him, and his knees smote 
together. His companion now emptied the con- 
tents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs 
to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed 
with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor 
in profound silence, and then returned to their 
game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension sub- 



Rir VAN WINKLE. 61 

sided. He even ventured, when jio eye was fixed 
upon him, to taste the beverage, whieh he found 
had much of the Havor of excellent Hollands. He 
was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted 
to rej)eat the draught. One taste provoked an- 
other ; and he reiterated his visits to the flagOD 
so often that at length his senses were overpow- 
ered, his eyes swam in his head, his head grad- 
ually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he fomid himself on the green knoD 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen 
He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morn 
mg. The birds were hopping and twittering 
among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling 
aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 
" Surely," thought Rip, " I have not sle])t here all 
night." He recalled the occurrences before he 
fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor 
— the mountam ravine — the Avild retreat among 
the rocks — the woe-begone party at nhiepins — 
the flagon — " Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked 
flagon ! " thought Rip, — " what excuse shall I 
make to Dame Van Winkle ? " 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of 
the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an 
old firelock lying by him, tlie barrel incrusted 
with rust, the lock faUing off, and the stock worm- 
eaten. He now suspected that the grave rois- 
ters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, 
and, having dosed him ^vith liquor, had robbed 
him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but 
he might have strayed away after a squirrel or 
partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted 



62 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated 
his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seeu. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last 
evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the 
party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose 
to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and 
wanting in his usual activity. " These mountain 
beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if 
(his frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheu- 
matism, I shall have a blessed time with Damo 
Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down 
into the glen : he found the gully up which he 
and his companion had ascended the preceding 
evening ; but to his astonishment a mountain 
stream was now foaming down it, leaping from 
rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble 
up its sides, working his toilsome way through 
thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and 
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild 
grape-vines that twisted their coils or tendrils from 
tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his 
path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had 
opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; 
but no traces of such opening remained. Tlie 
rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over 
which the torrent came tumbling in a slieet of 
feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, 
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. 
Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. 
He again called and whistled after his dog ; he 
was only answered by the cawing of a flock of 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 63 

idle crows, spoi'tiiig high iu air about a 3ry tree 
that (Aerlmng a sunny precipice ; and who, secure 
hi their elevatioi^ seemed to look down and scoflf 
at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be 
done ? the morning was passing away, and Rip 
U'lt famished for want of his breakfast. He 
Ui-ieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to 
meet his wife ; but it would not ao lO starve among 
the mountains. Pie sliook liis head, shouldered 
tlie rusty tirelock, and, with a heart full of troulde 
and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number 
of people, but none whom he knew, which some 
what surprised him, for he had thought himself 
acquainted with every one in tlie country round 
Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from 
that to which he was accustoiued. They all stared 
at him with equal marks of surprise, and wluin- 
ever they cast their eyes upon liim, hivai-iably 
stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of 
this gesture induced Rip, involuntai-ily, to do the 
same, when, to his astonisliment, he found his 
beard had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village, 
A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hoot- 
ing after him, and pointing at his gray beard 
The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized 
for an old acquaintance, barked at him as lie 
p<issed. The very village was altered ; it was 
'arger and more populous. There were rows of 
houses which he had never seen before, and those 
which had been his familiar haunts had disap- 
peared. Strarge names were over the doors — - 



64 'lUE bKETCil-BOOK 

straiijrc faces at the windows — evorything was 
etrarge^ His iiiiiid now misgave him ; he begau 
to doubt whether both he and the world around 
him were not bewitched. Surely this was Iiis 
aative village, which he had left but the day 
before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains — 
there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there 
v/as every hill and dale precisely as it had always 
been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "■ That ilagoa 
last night," thought he, " has addled my poor 
head sadly!" 

It was with some difficulty that he found the 
way to his own house, which he approached with 
silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the 
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found 
the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the 
windows shattered, and tlie doors off the hinges, 
A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was 
skidking about it. Rip adled him by name, but 
the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. 
This was an unkind cut indeed. " My very 
dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! " 

He entered the liouse, which, to tell the truth, 
Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 
It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. 
This desolateness overcame all his connubial feai^ 
— he called loudly for his wife and children — 
the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his 
roice, and then all agaui vvas silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old 
resort, the village imi — but it too was gone. A 
large rickety wooden building stood ui its place, 
with great gaping windows, some of them broken 



RIP VAIV WrNKLE. 65 

a!Ki mended with old hats and petticoats, and over 
the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jona- 
than Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that 
lused to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, 
there now was reared a tall naked pole, with 
something on the top that looked like a red night- 
cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which 
was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes ; — 
all this was strange and incomprehensible. He 
recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face 
of King George, under which he had smoked so 
many a peaceful pipe ; but even this "was singu- 
larly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed 
for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the 
hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated 
with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted iu 
large characters, Genkkal Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the 
door, but none that Rip recollected. The verj^ 
character of the people seemed changed. There 
was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, 
instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy 
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage 
Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, 
and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco- 
smoke instead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, 
ihe schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an 
ancient newspaper. Li place of these, a lean, 
bilious - looking fellow, with his pockets full of 
hand - bills, was haranguing vehemently about 
rights of citizens — elections — members of 
congi'ess — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of 
seventy -six — and other words, which were a 

5 



66 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Vari 
Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled 
board, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, 
nnd an army of women and children at his heels, 
soon attracted the attention of the tavern-poli- 
ticians. They crowded round him, eying hira 
from head to foot with great curiosity. The ora- 
tor bustled up to him, and, drawiiig him partly 
aside, inquired " On which side he voted ? " Rip 
stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but 
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, ris- 
ing on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " Whether he 
was Federal or Democrat ? " Rip was equally at 
a loss to comprehend the question ; when a know- 
ing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp 
cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, 
putting them to the right and left with his elbows 
as he passed, and phmting himself before Van 
Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting 
on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat pene- 
trating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded, 
in an austere tone, " What brought him to the 
election with a gun on his slioulder, and a mob at 
his heels ; and whether he meant to breed a riot 
m the village ? " — " Alas ! gentlemen," cried 
Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor quiet 
man, a native of the place, and a loyal pubjeet 
of tlie King, God bless him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers 
— "A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle 
him ! away with him ! " It was with great diffi- 
culty that the self-important man ui the cocited 



r:p van winkle. 67 

fiat restored order ; and, having assumed a ten- 
fold austerity of brow, demanded again of the 
unknown culprit, what he came there for, and 
whom he was seeking ? The poor man humbly 
assured him that he meant no harm, but merely 
en me there in search of some of his neighbors, 
j\ho used to keep about the tavern. 

" Well — who are they ? — name them." 

Kip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
" Where 's Nicholas Vedder ? " 

There was a silence for a little while, when an 
old man replied, in a ihin piping voice, " Nicholas 
Vedder ! why, he is dead and gone these eigh- 
teen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in 
the churchyard that used to tell all about him, 
but that 's rotten and gone too." 

" Where 's Brom Dutcher ? " 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the begin- 
ning of the war ; some say he was killed at the 
storming of Stony Point — others say he was 
drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. 
I don't know — he never came back aga'n." 

" Where 's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ? " 

" He went off to the wars too, was a r;reat mi- 
litia general, and is now in congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding 
himself thus alone in the world. Every answer 
puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could 
aot understand : war — congress — Stony Point 
— he had no courage to ask after any more 
friends, but cried out in despair, " Does* n'^1>od^ 
here know Rip Van Winkle ? " 



68 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or 
three, " oh, to be sure ! that 's Rip Van Winkle 
yonder, leaning against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart 
of himself, as he went up the mountam ; ap- 
parently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The 
poor fellow was now completely confounded. He 
doubted his own identity, and whether he was 
himself or another man. In the midst of his 
bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat de- 
manded who he was, and what was his name. 

" God knows," exclaimed' he, at his wit's end ; 
" I 'm not myself — I 'm somebody else — that 's 
me yonder — no — that 's somebody else got into 
my shoes — 1 was myself last night, but I fell 
asleep on the mountain, and they Ve changed my 
gun, and everything 's changed, and I 'm changed, 
and I can't tell what 's my name, or who I am ! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each 
other, nod, wmk significantly, and tap their 
fingers against their foreheads. There was a 
whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keep- 
ing the old fellow from doing mischief, at the 
\'ery suggestion of whicii the self-important man 
in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. 
At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman 
pressed through the throng to get a peep at the 
gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in 
her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to 
cry. " Hush, Rip," critul she, " hush, you little 
fool ; the old man won't hurt you." The name of 
the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her 
7oice, all awakened a train of lecoliections in hid 



RIP VAS WINKLE. 69 

mind. " Wliat is your name, my good woman ^ " 
asked he. 

" Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name ? " 

" Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his 
name, but it 's twenty years since he went away 
from home with his gun, and never has been 
heard of since, — his dog came home without 
him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried 
away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was 
then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he 
put it with a faltering voice : 

" Where 's your niotlier ? " 

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; 
she broke a bloodvessel in a fit of passion at a 
New-England pedler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this 
intelligence. The honest man could contain him- 
self no longer. He caught his daughter and her 
child in his arms. " I am your father ! " cried 
he — " Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip 
Van Winkle now ! — Does nobody know poor 
Rip Van Winkle ? " 

All stood amazed, until an old .woman, totter- 
ing out from among the crowd, put her hand to 
her brow, and peering under it in his face for a 
moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Rip Van 
Winkle — it is himself ! Welcome home again, 
old neighbor. Why, where have you been these 
twenty long years ? " 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
years had been to him but as one night. The 



70 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

neighbors stared when they heard it ; some were 
seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues 
ill their cheeks : and the self-important man in 
the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, 
had returned to the field, screwed down the cor- 
ners of his mouth, and shook liis head — upon 
which there was a general shaking of the head 
throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opuiion 
of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly 
advancing up the road. He was a descendant of 
the historian of that name, who wrote one of the 
earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the 
most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well 
versed in all the wonderful events and traditions 
of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at 
once, and corroborated his story in the most sat- 
isfactory manner. He assured the company that 
it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the 
historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always 
been hamited by strange beings. That it was 
affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the 
first discoverer of the river and country, kept a 
kind of vigil tlxere every twenty years, with his 
crew of the Half-moon ; being permitted in this 
way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and 
keep a guardian eye upon the river and the 
great city called by his name. That his father 
had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses 
playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain ; 
and that he himself had heard^ one summer after- 
uoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals 
Df thunder. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 71 

To make a long story short, the company 
broke up and returned to the more importan. 
concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took 
him home to live with her ; she had a snug, 
well- furnished house, and a stout, cheery famier 
for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of 
tlie urchins that used to cHmb upon his back. 
As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of 
himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was 
employed to work on the farm ; but evinced an 
hereditary disposition to attend to anything else 
but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he 
soon found many of his former cronies, though 
all rather the worse for the wear and tear of 
time ; and preferred making friends among the 
rising generation, with whom he soon grew into 
great favor. 

Having nothmg to do at home, and being ar- 
rived at that happy age when a man can be idle 
with impunity, he took his place once more on 
the bench at the inn-door, and was reverenced as 
one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chron- 
icle of the old times " before the war." It was 
some time before he could get into the regular 
track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend 
the strange events that had taken place during 
his torpor. How that there had been a revolu- 
tionary war, — that the country had thrown off 
he yoke of old England, — and that, instead of 
being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, 
ae was now a free citizen of the United States 
Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the chanffea of 



72 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

states and empires made but little impression on 
tiim ; but there was one species of despotism 
under which he had long groaned, and that was 
— petticoat government. Happily that was at 
an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of 
matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he 
pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame 
Van Winkle. Wlienever her name was men- 
tioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his 
shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might 
pass either for an expression of resignation to 
his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger 
that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was ob- 
served, at first, to vary on some points every time 
he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his 
having so recently awaked. It at last settled 
down precisely to the tale I have related, and 
not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood 
but knew it by heart. Some always pretended 
to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip 
had been out of his head, and that this was one 
point on which he always remained flighty. The 
old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost univer- 
sally gave it full credit. Even to this day they 
never hear a thunder-storm of a summer after 
noon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick 
Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine- 
pins ; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked 
husbands in the neighborhood, when life hanga 
heavy on their hands, that they might have a 
quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle^s flagon 



RIP VAN WIMKLE. 78 



NOTE. 

The forej^oing Tale, one would suspect, had been sugprested 
to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about 
the Emperor Frederick der liothhnrf, and the Kypphfiu<er 
mountain : the subjoined note, however, whicii he had ap- 
pended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated 
vith his usual lidelity. 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible t<! 
Muiiiy. but nevertheless I i^ive it my full belief, for I know 
file vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very 
subject to niar\^ellous events and appearances. Indeed, I 
have heard many strantrer stories than this, in the villaj^ei 
alonfj the Hudson ; all of which Avere too well authenticated to 
admit of a doubt. 1 have even talked with Rip Van Winkle 
myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old 
man, and so perfectly rational aiul consistent on every other 
point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take 
this into the bari^ain ; nav, I have seen a certificate on the 
subject taken before a country justice and signed with across, 
in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is be- 
vond the possibility of doubt. 

" D. K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum- 
book of Mr. Knickerbocker. 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a 
region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode 
of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or 
clouds over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting- 
seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be 
their mother. She dwelt f)n the highest peak of the Cntskills, 
and had charge of the doors of day and niglit to open and 
shut them at the proper hour. Slie hung up the new moons 
in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times ot 
drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer 
clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off 
from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes 
)f carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dissolved by the 
neat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing 
the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow 
an inch an hour. It' displeased, however, she would brew up 
clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle- 
jellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds 
'jroke, woe betide the valleys ! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind o' 
\Ianitou or Spirit* who kept about the wildest recesses of th* 
'atskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaL 



74 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



ing all kinds ofevils and vexations upon the red men. Some- 
times lie would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a 
deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tan- 
gled forests and among ragged rocks ; and then spring off 
with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a 
beetling precipice or raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a 
great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and. 
from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wilo 
flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by tho 
name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, 
the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking 
In the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the 
surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, 
msomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game 
within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter 
who had lost his way, penetrated to the Garden Rock, where 
he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. 
One of 'these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry 
of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great 
Btream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him 
down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream 
made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the pres- 
ent day; being the identical stream known by the nante of 
the Kaaters-kill. 



.Q>X3&^^,-s: 




ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 




" Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, 
rousinjjj herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking hei 
invincible locks: methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her 
mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full 
mid-day beam." — Milton on the Liberty of the Press. 

|T is with feelings of deep regret that I 
observe the literary animosity daily grow- 
ing up between England and America. 
Great curiosity has been awakened of late ^vith 
respect to the United States, and the London 
press has teemed with volumes of travels through 
the Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse 
error rather than knowledge ; and so successful 
have they been, that, notwithstanding the constant 
intercourse between the nations, there is no people 
concerning whom the great mass of the British 
public have less pure information, or entertain 
more numerous prejudices. 

English travellers are the best and the worst 
in the world. Where no motives of pride or 
interest intervene, none can equal them for pro- 
found and philosophical views of society, or faith- 
ful and graphical descriptions of external objects ; 
but when either the interest or reputation of their 
jwn country comes in collision with that of an 



76 THE SKETCrr-BOOK. 

other, they go to the opposite extreme, and forgot 
their usual probity and candor in the indulgence 
of splenetic remark and an illiberal spirit of ridi- 
cule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accu- 
rate the more remote the country described. I 
would place implicit confidence in an Englishman's 
descriptions of the regions beyond the cataracts 
of the Nile ; of unknown islands in the Yellow 
Sea ; of the interior of India ; or of any other 
tract which other travellers might be apt to pict- 
ure out with the illusions of their fancies ; but 
I would cautiously receive his account of his 
immediate neighboi'S, and of those nations with 
which he is in habits of most frequent intercourse. 
However I miglit be disposed to trust his probity, 
I dare not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country 
to be visited by the worst kind of English trav- 
ellers. While men of philosophical spirit and 
cultivated minds have been sent from England to 
ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and 
to study the manners and customs of barbarous 
nations with which she can have no permanent 
intercourse of profit or pleasure, it has been left 
to the brokendown tradesman, the scheming ad- 
venturer, the wandering mechanic, the Manches- 
ter and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles re- 
specting America. From such sources she is 
content to receive her information respecting a 
country in a singular state of moral and physical 
development ; a country in wliicli one of the great- 
est political experiments in the history of the 

m 



UNGLISIJ WRITERS UN AMERICA. 11 

ATorld is now performing ; and which presents 
the most profound and momentous studies to the 
statesman and the philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudicial accounts 
of America is not a matter of surprise. The 
themes it offers for contemplation are too vast 
and elevated for their capacities. The national 
character is yet in a state of fermentation ; it 
may have its frothiness and sediment, but its in- 
gredients are sound and wholesome ; it has already 
given proofs of powerful and generous qualities ; 
and the whole promises to settle down into some- 
thing substantially excellent. But the causes 
which are operating to strengthen and ennoble it, 
and its daily indications of admirable properties, 
are all lost upon these purblind observers ; who 
are only affected by the little asperities incident 
to Its present situation. They are capable of judg- 
ing only of the surface of things ; of those matters 
wn.^ch come in contact with their private interests 
and ixirsonal gi'atifications. They miss some of the 
snug convexuences and petty comforts which be- 
long to an Old, highly finished, and over-populous 
btate of socjei.v ; where the ranks of useful labor 
are crowded, ai d many earn a painful and servile 
subsistence bv studying the very caprices of appe- 
ute and self-uidulgence. These minor comforts, 
oowever, are all-important in the estimation of 
naiTow minds ; which either do not perceive, or 
will not acknowledge, that they are more than 
counterbalanced among us by great and generally 
iiffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed m 



78 THE SKETCn-liOOK. 

some unreasonable expectation of sudden gain 
Tliey may have pictured America to themselves 
an El Dorado, where gold and silver abounded, 
and the natives were lacking in sagacity, and 
^vllere they were to become strangely and sud- 
denly rich in some unforeseen but easy manner. 
Tlie same weakness of mmd that indulges absurd 
expectations produces petulance in disappoint- 
ment. Such persons become embittered against 
the country on finding that there, as everywhere 
else, a man must sow before he can reap ; must 
win wealth by industry and talent ; and must con- 
tend with the common difficulties of nature, and 
the shrewdness of an intelligent and enterprising 
people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hos- 
pitality, or from the prompt disposition to cheer 
and countenance the stranger, prevalent among 
my countrymen, they may have been treated wiih 
unwonted respect in America ; and having been 
accustomed all their lives to consider themselves 
below the surface of good society, and brought up 
in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become 
arrogant on the common boon of civility : they at- 
tribute to the lowliness of others their own eleva- 
tion ; and underrate a society where there are no 
artificial distinctions, and where, by any chance, 
such individuals as themselves can rise to conse 
quence. 

One would suppose, however, that information 
coming from sucli sources, on a subject where the 
truth -is so desirable, would be received with cau- 
tion by the censors of the press ; that the motives 



E^aLfSn WR/TFRS ON AMERICA. 79 

of tliese men, their veracity, tlitir opportunities 
of inquiry and observation, and their capacities 
for judging correctly, would be rigorously scruti- 
uized before their evidence was admitted, in such 
sweeping extent, against a kindred nation. Tlie 
very reverse, however, is the case, and it fur- 
nishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. 
Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which 
English critics will examine the credibility of 
the traveller who publishes an account of some 
distant and comparatively unimportant country. 
How warily will they compare the measurements 
of a pyramid, or the descriptions of a ruin ; and 
how sternly will they censui*e any inaccuracy in 
these contributions of merely curious knowledge 
while they will receive, with eagerness and un 
hesitating faith, the gross misi-epresentations of 
coarse and obscure writers, concerning a country 
with which their own is placed in the most im- 
portant and delicate relations. Nay, they will 
even make these apocryphal volumes text-books, 
on which to enlarge with a zeal and an ability 
worthy of a more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and 
hackneyed topic ; nor should I have adverted to 
it but for the undue interest apparently taken in 
it by my countrymen, and certain injurious effects 
wliich I apprehended it might produce upon the 
national feeling. We attach too much conse- 
quence to these attacks. They cannot do us any 
essential injury. The tissue of misrepresenta- 
tions attempted to be woven round us are like 
csobwebs woven round the limbs of an infan' 



HO Tllh .SKh'TCIJ-nOOK. 

giant. Our country continually outgrows tlieiiL 
One falsehood after another tails otF of itself. 
We have but to live on, and every day we live a 
whole volume of refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if we could 
for a moment suppose their great minds stooping 
to so unworthy a combination, could not conceal 
our rapidly growing importance and matchless 
prosperity. They could not conceal that these 
are owing, not merely to physical and local, but 
also to moral causes — to the political liberty, 
ihe general diffusion of knowledge, the preva- 
lence of sound moral and religious principles, 
which give force and sustained energy to the 
character of a people, and which, in fact, have 
been the acknowledged and wonderful supporters 
of their own national power and glory. 

But why are we so exqvdsitely alive to the 
aspersions of England ? Why do we suffer our- 
selves to be so affected by the contumely she has 
endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not in the 
opinion of England alone that honor lives, and 
reputation has its behig. The world at large is 
the arbiter of a nation's fame ; with its thousand 
eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and from their 
collective testimony is national glory or national 
disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of 
but little importance whether England does us 
justice or not ; it is, perhaps, of far more impor- 
tance to herself She is instilling anger and 
resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, 
to grow with its growth and strengthen with its 



EKCLIiiU WRITERS ON AMERICA. 81 

Strength. If in America, as some of her writers 
are laboring to convince her, she is hereafter tr 
find an invidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she 
may thank those very writers for having provok- 
ed rivalship and irritated hostility. Every one 
knows the all-pervading influence of literature at 
the present day, and how much the opinions and 
passions of mankind are under its control. The 
mere contests of the sword are temporary ; their 
wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the pride 
of the generous to forgive and forget them ; but 
the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they 
rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; they dwell 
ever present in the mind, and render it morbidly 
sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is but 
seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities 
between two nations ; there exists, most commonly, 
a previous jealousy and ill-will, a predisposition 
to take offence. Trace these to their cause, and 
how often will they be found to originate in the 
mischievous effusions of mercenary writers, who, 
secure in their closets, and for ignominious bread, 
concoct and circulate the venom that is to inflame 
the generous and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this 
point ; for it applies most emphatically to our par- 
ticular case. Over no nation does the press hold 
a more absolute control than over the people of 
America ; for the universal education of the 
poorest classes makes every individual a reader, 
There is nothing published in England on the 
subject of our country that does not circulate 
through every part of it. There is not a cal- 



82 THE tsKETGII-BOOK. 

umny dropped from English pen, nor an un« 
worthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, 
that does not go to blight good-will, and add to 
the mass of latent resentment. Possessing, then, 
as England does, the fountain-head whence the 
literature of the language flows, how completely 
is it in her power, and how truly is it her duty, 
to make it the medium of amiable and magnani- 
mous feeling — a stream where the two nations 
might meet together, and drink in peace and 
kindness. Should she, however, persist in turn- 
ing it to waters of bitterness, the time may come 
when she may repent her folly. The present 
friendship of America may be of but little mo- 
ment to her, but the future destmies of that 
comitry do not admit of a doubt ; over those of 
England there lower some shadows of uncer- 
tainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive ; 
should these reverses overtake her, from which 
the proudest empires have not been exempt ; she 
may look back with regret at her infatuation in 
repulsing from her side a nation she might have 
grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her 
only chance for real friendship beyond the boun- 
daries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, that 
the people of the United States are inimical 
to the parent- country. It is one of the errors 
which have been diligently propagated by design- 
ing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable 
political hostility, and a general soreness at the 
Qliberallty of the English press ; but, generally 
speaking, the prepossessions of the people aro 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 83 

Strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one 
time they amounted, in many parts of the Union, 
to an absurd degree of bigotry. The bare name 
of Englishman was a passport to the confidence 
and hospitality of every family, and too often 
gave a transient currency to the worthless and 
the ungrateful. Throughout the country there 
was something of enthusiasm connected with the 
idea of England. We looked to it with a hal- 
lowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, as 
the land of our foreflithers — the august repository 
of the monuments and antiquities of our race — 
the birthplace and mausoleum of the sages and 
heroes of our paternal history. After our own 
country, there was none in whose glory we more 
delighted — none whose good opinion we were 
more anxious to possess — none towards wliich 
our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm 
consanguinity. Even during the late war, when- 
ever there was the least opportunity for kind 
feelings to spring forth, it was the delight of the 
generous spirits of our country to show that, in 
the midst of hostilities, they still kept alive the 
Bparks of future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden 
band of kindred sympathies, so rare between na- 
tions, to be broken forever? Perhaps it is for 
the best : it may dispel an illusion which might 
have kept us in mental vassalage, — which might 
have interfered occasionally with our true in- 
terests, and prevented the growth of proper na- 
tional pride. But it is hard to give up the kin- 
dred tie ! and there are feelings dearer thtm in« 



84 rUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Uit est — closer to the heart than pride — that 
will still make iis cast back a look of regret, as 
we wander fartlier and farther from the paternal 
roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent 
that would repel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the 
conduct of England may be in this system of 
aspersion, recrimination on our part would be 
equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and 
spirited vindication of our country, nor the keen- 
est castigation of her slanderers, — but I allude 
to a disposition to retaliate in kind ; to retort 
sarcasm, and inspire prejudice ; which seems to 
be spreading widely among our writers. Let u9 
guard particularly against such a temper, for it 
would double the evil instead of redressing the 
wi'ong. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the 
retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry 
and an unprofitable contest. It is the alternative 
of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance rather 
than warmed into indignation. If England is 
willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or 
the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave 
the integrity of her press, and poison the fomitain 
of public opinion, let us beware of her example. 
She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, and 
engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking 
emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind to 
serve. Neither have we any spirit of national 
jealousy to gratify, for as yet, in all our rivalships 
with England, we are the rising and the gaining 
party. There can be no end to answer, therefore, 
but the gratification of resentment — a mere spirit 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 86 

of retaliation ; and eveu that is impotent. Our 
retorts are never republisiied in England : they 
fall short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a 
querulous and peevish temper among our writers : 
they som* the sweet flow of om* early literature, 
and sow thorns and brambles among its blossoms. 
What is still worse, they circulate through our 
own country, and, as far as they have effect, excite 
vu'ulent national prejudices. This last is the evil 
most especially to be deprecated. Governed, as 
we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost care 
should be taken to preserve the purity of thft 
public mind. Knowledge is power, and truth ia 
knowledge ; whoever, therefore, knowingly propa- 
gates a prejudice, wilfully saps the foundation of 
his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other 
men, should be candid and dispassionate. They 
are, mdividually, portions of the sovereign mind 
and sovereign will, and should be enabled to come 
to all questions of national concern with calm and 
unbiassed judgments. From the peculiar nature 
of our relations with England, we must have 
more frequent questions of a difficult and delicate 
character with her than with any other nation, — 
questions that affect the most acute and excitable 
feelings ; and as, in the adjustmg of these, our 
national measures must ultimately be determined 
by popular sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously 
>ittentive to purify it from all latent passion or 
prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for stran- 
gers from every portion of tlic earth, we should 



86 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

receive all with impartiality. It should be our 
pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at least, 
destitute of national antipathies, and exercising 
not merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those 
more rare and noble courtesies which spring from 
liberality of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices ? 
They are the inveterate diseases of old countries, 
contracted in rude and ignorant ages, when na- 
tions knew but little of each other, and looked 
beyond their own boundaries with distrust and 
hostility. We, on the contrary, have sprung intx* 
national existence in an enlightened and philo- 
sophic age, when the different parts of the habi- 
table world, and the various branches of the hu- 
man family, have been indefatigably studied and 
made known to each other ; and we forego the 
advantages of our birth if we do not shake off 
the national prejudices, as we would the local 
superstitions, of the old world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any 
angry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the 
perception of what is really excellent and amia- 
ble in the English character. We are a young 
people, necessarily an imitative one, and must 
take our examples and models, in a great degree, 
from the existing nations of Europe. There ia 
no country more worthy of our study than Eng- 
land. The spirit of her constitution is most anal- 
ogous to ours. The manners of her people — 
their intellectual activity — their freedom of opin- 
ion — their habits of thinking on those subjects 
whicli concern the deai'ust interests and most sa- 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 87 

cred charities of private life, are all congenial to 
the American diameter, and, in fact, are all in 
trinsically excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling 
of the people tliat the deep foundations of British 
prosperity are laid ; and however the superstruct- 
ui*e may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there 
must be something solid in the basis, admirable in 
the materials, and stable in the structure of an 
edifice that so long has towered unshaken amidst 
the tempests of .the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, 
discarding all feelings of irritation, and disdaining 
to retaliate the illiberality of British authors, to 
speak of the English nation without prejudice, 
and with determined candor. While they rebuke 
the mdiscriminating bigotry with which some of 
our countrymen admire and imitate everything 
English, merely because it is English, let them 
frankly point out what is really worthy of appro- 
bation. We may thus place England before us 
as a perpetual volume of reference, wherein are 
recorded sound deductions from ages of experi- 
ence ; and while we avoid the errors and absurd- 
ities which may have crept into the page, we may 
draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, 
wherewith to strengthert and to embellish our ua> 
tional character. 



RURAL LIFE m ENGLAND. 




Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

COWPEB. 

^^-^^HE stranger who would form a correct 
opinion of the English character must 
not confine his observations to the me- 
tropolis. He must go forth into the country ; he 
must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must 
visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages ; he must 
wander tliroiigli parks and gardens ; along hedges 
and green lanes ; he must loiter about country 
churches ; attend wakes and fairs, and other rUral 
festivals ; and cope with the people in all their 
conditions, and* all their habits and humors. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the 
wealth and fashion of the nation ; they are the 
only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, 
and the country is inhabited almost entirely by 
boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, 
the metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or gen- 
eral rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they 
devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of 
o-ayety and dissipation, and, having indulged liiis 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 89 

kiiiJ of carnival, return again to the apparently 
more congenial habits of rural life. The various 
orders of society are therefore diffused over thij 
whole surface of the kuigdom, and the most re- 
tired neighborhoods afford specimens of the differ 
ent ranks. 

The English, in ftict, are strongly gifted with 
tlie rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibil- 
ity to the beauties of nature, and a keen relish 
for the pleasures and employments of the coun- 
try. This passion seems inherent in them. Even 
the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up 
among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with 
facility uito rui'al habits, and evince a tact for 
rural occupation. The merchant has his snug re- 
treat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he 
often displays as much pride and zeal in the cul- 
tivation of his flower-garden, and the maturing 
of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his busi- 
ness, and the success of a commercial enterprise. 
Even those less fortunate individuals who are 
doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din 
and traffic, contrive to have something that shall 
remind tliem of the green aspect of nature. In 
the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the 
drawuig-room window resembles frequently a 
bank of flowers ; every spot capable of vegeta- 
tion has its grass-plot and flower-bed ; iuid every 
square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque 
taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town 
are apt to form an unfavorable opinion of his so* 
lial character. He is either absorbed m business 



90 THE SKETCn-BtOK. 

or distracted by the thousand engagements that 
dissipate time, thought, and feehng in this huge 
metropoHs. He has, therefore, too commonly a 
look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he hap 
pens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere 
else ; at the moment he is talking on one subject, 
his mind is wandering to another ; and while pay- 
ing a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall 
economize time so as to pay the other visits allot- 
ted in the morning. An immense metropolis, like 
London, is calculated to make men selfish and un- 
interesting. In their casual and transient meet- 
ings they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. 
They present but the cold superficies of character 
— its rich and genial qualities have no time to be 
warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives 
scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose 
gladly from the cold formalities and negative ci- 
vilities of town, throws off his habits of shy re- 
serve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He 
manages to collect round him all the conveniences 
and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its re- 
straints. His country-seat abounds with every 
requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful 
gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, 
music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of 
all kinds, are at liand. He puts no constraint 
either upon his guests or himself, but in the time 
spirit of hospitality provides the means of enjoy- 
ment, and leaves every one to partake according 
to his inclination. * 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of 



RURAL LIFE TN ENGLAND. 91 

land, and in what is called landscape-g^irdening. 
is unrivalled. They have studied nature intently, 
and discover an exquisite sense of her beauti- 
ful forms and harmonious combinations. Those 
charms which in other countries she lavishes in 
wild solitudes, are here assembled round the 
haunts of domestic life. They seem to have 
caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread 
them, like witchery, about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the mag- 
nificence of English park scenery. Vast lawns 
that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here 
and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up 
rich piles of foliage : tlie solemn pomp of groves 
and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in 
silent herds across them ; the hare, bounding away 
to the covert ; or the piieasant, suddenly bursting 
upon the wing : the brook, taught to wind in nat- 
uial meanderings or expand into a glassy lake : 
the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering ti'ees, 
with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and 
the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid wa- 
fers ; while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, 
gro^vn green and dank with age, gives an air of 
clcV-^ic sanctity to the seclusion. 

'Vhese are but a few of the features of park 
scenery ; but what most delights me, is the crea- 
tive talent with which the English decorate the 
unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest 
habitation, the most unpromising and scanty por- 
tion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of 
■"aste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely 
liscriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its ci) 



92 TEL SKE2CH-B00K. 

pabilities, and pictures in his mind the future land 
scape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness un- 
der his hand ; and yet the operations of art which 
produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. 
The cherishing and training of some trees ; the cau- 
tious pruning of others ; the nice distribution of 
llowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; 
the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; 
the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or 
silver gleam of water : all these are managed with 
a delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, 
like the magic touchings with which a painter 
finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refine- 
ment in the country has diffused a degree of taste 
and elegance in rural economy that descends to 
the lowest class. The very laborer, with his 
thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, at- 
tends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, 
the grass-plot before the door, the little flower-bed 
bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up 
against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about 
the lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the 
holly, providently planted about the house, to 
cheat winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a 
semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside : 
all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing 
down from high sources, and pervading the lowest 
levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poeta 
suig, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cot- 
tage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher 
classes of the English has had a great and salu- 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 93 

tary effect upon the national character. T do not 
know a finer race of men than the Englisli gentle- 
men. Instead of the softness and effeminacy whicb 
cliaracterize the men of rank in most countries, 
tliey exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a 
lobustness of frame and freshness of complexion, 
which I am inclined to attribute to their living so 
much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the 
invigorating recreations of the country. These 
hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of 
mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity 
of manners which even the follies and dissipations 
of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never 
entirely destroy. In the country, too, the differ- 
ent orders of society seem to approach more 
freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate 
favorably upon each other. The distinctions be- 
tween them do not appear to be so marked and 
impassable as in the cities. The manner in 
whicli property has been distributed into small 
estates and farms has established a regular o-rada- 
tion from the noblemen, through the classes of 
gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial 
farmers, down to the laboring peasantry ; and 
while it has thus banded the extremes of society 
together, has infused into each intermediate rank 
a spirit of independence. Tliis, it must be con- 
fessed, is not so universally the case at present as 
it was formerly, the larger estates having, in late 
years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in 
some parts of the country, almost annihilated the 
sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, I 
believe, are but casual breaks in tlie general sys- 
tem I have mentioned. 



91 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and 
debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of 
natural grandeur and beauty ; it leaves him to the 
workings of his own mind, operated upon by the 
purest and most elevating of external influences. 
Such a man may be simple and rough, but he 
cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, there- 
fore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse 
with the lower orders in rural life, as he does 
when he casually mingles with the lower orders 
of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, 
and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and 
to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of 
common life. Indeed the very amusements of the 
country bring men more and more together ; and 
the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings 
into harmony. I believe this is one great reason 
why the nobility and gentry are more popular 
among the inferior orders in England than they 
are in any other coimtry ; and why the latter 
have endured so many excessive pressures and 
extremities, without repining more generally at 
the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic soci- 
ety may also be attributed the rural feeling that 
runs through British literature ; the frequent use 
of illustrations from rural life ; those incompara- 
ble descriptions of nature that abound in the Brit- 
ish poets, that- have continued down from "The 
Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have 
brought into our closets all the freshness and fi'a- 
grance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writ- 
ers of other countries appear as if they had paid 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 95 

nature aii occasional visit, and become acquainted 
with her general charms ; but the British poets 
have lived and revelled with her — they have 
wooed her in her most secret haunts — tney have 
watclied her miiuitest caprices. A spray could 
not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rus- 
tle to the ground — a diamond drop could not pat- 
ter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale 
from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its 
crimson tints to the morning, but it has been 
noticed by these impassioned and delicate observ- 
ers, and wrought up into some beautiful moral- 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to 
rural occupations has been wonderful on the face 
of the country. A great part of the island is 
rather level, and would be monotonous, were it 
not for the charms of cultm-e ; but it is studded 
and gemmed, as it were, with castles and pala'ies, 
arid embroidered with parks and gardens. It does 
not abound in gi'and and sublime prospects, but 
rather in little home-scenes of rural repose and 
sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house and 
moss-grown cottage is a picture ; and as the roads 
are continually Avinding, and the view is shut in 
by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a 
continual succession of small landscapes of capti- 
vating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery 
IS the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It 
IS associated in the muid with ideas of order, of 
quiet, of sober, well-established principles, of hoary 
usage and reverend custom. Everything seems 



96 THE SKETCTl-BOOK. 

to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful 
existence. The old church of remote architect- 
ure, with its low, massive portal ; its Gothic 
tower; its windows rich with tracery and painted 
glass, in scrupulous preservation ; its stately mon- 
uments of warriors and worthies of the olden 
time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil ; 
its tombstones, recording successive generations 
of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough 
the same fields, and kneel at the same altar ; — 
the parsonage, a quaint, irregular pile, partly anti- 
quated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of 
various ages and occupants ; — the stile and foot- 
path leading from the churchyard, across pleasant 
fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according to 
an immemorial right of way ; — the neighboring 
village, with its venerable cottages, its public 
green sheltered by trees, under Avhich the fore- 
fathers of the present race have sported ; — the 
antique family mansion, standing apart in some 
little rural domain, but looking down with a pro- 
tecting air on the surrounding scene : all these 
common features of English landscape evince a 
calm and settled security, and hereditary transmis- 
sion of home-bred virtues and local attachments, 
that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral 
character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, 
when the bell is sending its sober melody across 
the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry in their 
best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheerful- 
ness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes 
to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 97 

them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage- 
doors, and appearing to exult in the humble com- 
forts and embellishments which their own hands 
have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose 
of affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, 
the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest 
enjoyments ; and I cannot close these desultory 
r«^marks better than by quoting the words of a 
hiodern English poet, who has depicted it with 
remarkable felicity : — ■ 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 

The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, 

But chief from modest mansions numberless, 

In tOAvn or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 

Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof 'd shed; 

This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 

Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place; 

Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 

(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 

Can centre in a little quiet nest 

All that desire would fly for tlirough the earth; 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 

A world enjoy'd; that wants no witnesses 

But its own sharers, and approving heaven; 

That, like a flower deep hid in rock}' cleft. 

Smiles, though 't is looking only at the skj'.* 

• From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, bj 
ta« Reverend Rann Kennedy, A. M. 





I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 't was nipt 
With care, that, like the caferpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MiDDLETON 

|T is a common practice with those who 
have outlived the susceptibility of early 
feehng, or have been brought up in the 
gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all 
love-stories, and to treat the tales of romantic pas- 
sion as mere fictions of novelists and poets. My 
observations on human nature have induced me 
to think otherwise. They have convinced me, 
that, however the surface of the character may be 
chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or 
cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, 
still there are dormant fires lurking in the 
depths of the coldest bosom, which, when once 
enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes 
desolating in tlieir effects. Indeed, I am a true 
believer in the blind deity, and go to the full ex- 
tent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it ? — J 
believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of 
dying of disappointed love. I do not, however, 
consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex ; 



THE BROKEN HEART. 99 

out I firmly believe that it withers clown many a 
iovely woman mto an early grave. 

INIan is the creature of interest and ambition 
His nature leads him forth into the struggle and 
bustle of the world. Love is but the embellish- 
ment of his eai'ly life, or a song piped in the in- 
tervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for for- 
tune, for space in the world's thought, and domin- 
ion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole 
life is a history of the affections. The heart is 
her world : it is there her ambition strives for 
empire ; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden 
treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on 
adventure ; she embarks her whole soul in the 
traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case 
is hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may oc- 
casion some bitter pangs : it wounds some feel- 
ings of tenderness — it blasts some prospects of 
felicity ; but he is an active being — he may dis- 
sipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupa- 
tion, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, 
if the scene of disappointment be too full of pain- 
ful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and 
taking as it were the wings of the morning, can 
^ fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and bo 
at rest." 

ButAvoman's is comparatively a fixed, a seclud- 
ed, and meditative life. She is more the com- 
panion of her own thoughts and feelings ; and if 
they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where 
shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be 
ivooed and wo'i ; and if unhappy in her love, her 



100 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

heart is like some fortress that has been cap- 
tured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left deso 
late. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many 
soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms 
fade away uito the tomb, and none can tell the 
cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove 
will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and con- 
ceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so it 
is the nature of woman to hide from the world 
the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a 
delicate female is always shy and silent. Even 
when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; 
but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses 
of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood 
among the ruins of her peace. With her the 
desire of the heart has failed. The great charm 
of existence is at an end. She neglects all the 
cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, 
quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in 
healthful currents through the veins. Her rest 
is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is 
poisoned by melancholy dreams — " dry sorrow 
drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks 
under the slightest external injury. Look foi 
her, after a little while, and you find friendship 
weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering 
that one, who but lately glowed with all the radi- 
ance of health and beauty, should so speedily be 
brought down to " darkness and the worm." You 
«dll be told of some wintry chill, some casual in- 
iisposition, that laid her low; — but no one knows 
of the mental malady which previously sapped 



THE BROKEN UEART. 101 

ber strength, and made lier so easy a prey to tlie 
Bpoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and 
beauty of the grove ; gi-aceful in its form, bright 
in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its 
heart. We find it suddenly withering, when \i 
should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it 
drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding 
leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it 
falls even in the stilhiess of the forest ; and as 
we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in 
vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that 
could have smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running 
to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing grad- 
ually from the earth, almost as if they had been 
exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied 
that I could trace their death tlirough the various 
declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, 
melancholy, mitil I reached the first symptom of 
disappointed love. But an instance of the kind 
was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well 
kno^vn in the country where they happened, and 
I shall but give them in the manner m which 
they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of 

young E , the Irish patriot ; it was too touch- 

mg to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in 
Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and executed, 
m a charge of treason. His fate made a deep im- 
pression on public sympathy. He was so young 
— so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so 
everything that we are apt to like in a yoiuig 



102 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

man. Ilis conduct under trial, too, was so lofty 
and intrepid. The noble indignation with which 
he repelled the charge of treason against his coun 
try — the eloquent vindication of his name — and 
his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless 
hour of condemnation — all these entered deeply 
into every generous bosom, and even his enemies 
lamented the stern policy that dictated his execu- 
tion. 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it 
would be impossible to describe. In happier days 
and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of 
a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a 
late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him 
with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first 
and early love. When every worldly maxim 
arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in for- 
tune, and disgrace and danger darkened around 
his name, she loved him the more ardently for his 
very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken 
the sympathy even of his foes, what must have 
been the agony of her, whose whole soul was 
occupied by his image ! Let those tell who have 
had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed be 
tween them and the being they most loved on 
earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one 
shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all 
that was most lovely and lov^ifg had departed. 

But then the horrors of ' such a grave ! so 
frightful, so dishonored ! there was nothing for 
memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of 
separation — none of those tender though melan- 
choly circumstances, which endear the parting 



THE BROKEN HEaRT lOS 

iceiie - — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed 
tears, sent like the clews of heaven, to revive the 
heart in the parting hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more deso- 
late, she had incurred her father's displeasure by 
her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile 
from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy 
and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit 
BO shocked and driven in by horror, she would 
have experienced no want of consolation, for the 
Irish are a people of quick and generous sensi- 
bilities. The most delicate and chierishing atten- 
tions were paid her by families of wealth and 
distinction. She was led into society, and they 
tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement 
to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the 
tragical story of her loves. But it was all in 
vain. There are some strokes of calamity which 
scathe and scorch the soul — which penetrate to 
the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never 
again to put forth bud or blossom. She never 
objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but 
was as much alone there as in the depths of soli- 
tude ; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently 
unconscious of the world around her. She car- 
ried with her an inward woe that mocked at all 
the blandishments of friendship, and " heeded 
not the song of the charmer, charm he never so 
wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen 
aer at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition 
of far-gone wretchedness more striking and pain- 
Ril than to meet it in such a scene. To find it 



104 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where 
all around is gay — to see it dressed out in the 
trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe- 
begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor 
heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow 
After strolling through the splendid rooms and 
giddy crowd with an ah' of utter abstraction, she 
sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, 
and, looking about for some time with a vacant 
air, that showed her insensibility to the garish 
scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a 
sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She 
had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it 
was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such 
a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd 
mute and silent around her, and melted every one 
into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not 
but excite great interest in a country remarkable 
for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a 
brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and 
thought that one so true to the dead could not 
but prove affectionate to the living. She declined 
his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably 
engrossed by the memory of her former lover. 
He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited 
not her tenderness, but'her esteem. He was as- 
sisted by her conviction of his worth, and her 
sense of her own destitute and dependent situa- 
tion, for she was existing on the kindness of 
friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in 
gaining her hand, though with the solenm assur 
Mice that her heart was unalterably another's. 



TBE BROKEN HEART. 105 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a 
change of scene might wear out the remembrance 
of early woes. She was an amiable and exem- 
plary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; 
but nothmg could cm'e the silent and devouring 
melancholy that had entered into her very soul. 
She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, 
and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of 
a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished 
Irish poet, composed the following lines : — 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

Andlovers around her are sighing: 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah I little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him 1 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest. 

When they promise a glorious morrow: 
They 'II shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 

From her own loved island of sorrow 1 



t06 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 



" If that severe doom of Synesius be true, — ' It is a greatei 
offence to steal dead men's labor, than their clothes,' Ti» hal 
ehall become of most Avriters? " 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 




HAVE often wondered at the extreme 
fecundity of the press, and how it comes 
to pass that so many heads, on which 
nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of bar- 
renness, should teem with voluminous produc- 
tions. As a man travels on, however, in the 
journey of life, his objects of wonder daily dimin- 
ish, and he is continually finding out some very 
simple cause for some great matter of marvel. 
Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about 
this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene 
which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of 
the book-making craft, and at once put an end to 
my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the 
great saloons of the British Museum, with that 
listlessness with which one is apt to saunter about 
a museum in warm weather ; sometimes lolling 
over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes study- 
ing the hieroglypliics on an Egyptian mummy, 
and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, 
to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 107 

lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in thia 
idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant 
door, at the end of a suite of apartments. It was 
closed, but every now and then it would open, 
and some strange-favored being, generally clothed 
in black, would "steal forth, and glide through the 
rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding 
objects. There was an air of mystery about this 
that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determin- 
ed to attempt the passage of that strait, and to 
explore the unknown regions beyond. The door 
yielded to my hand, with that facility with which 
the portals of enchanted castles yield to the ad- 
venturous knight-errant. I found myself in a 
spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases of 
venerable books. Above the cases, and just un- 
der the cornice, were arranged a great number of 
black-looking portraits of ancient authors. About 
the room were placed long tables, with stands for 
reading and writing, at which sat many pale, stu- 
dious personages, poring intently over dusty vol- 
umes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, 
and taking copious notes of their contents. A 
hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious 
apartment, excepting that you might hear tho 
racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasion- 
ally the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he 
shifted his position to turn over the page of an old 
(olio ; doubtless arising from that hoUowness and 
flatulency incident to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would 
^vrite something on a small slip of paper, and 
•iag a bell, wluireupoji a familiar would appeal 



108 TBE SKETCH-BOOK. 

take the paper in profound silence, glide out of 
the room, and return shortly loaded with ponder- 
ous tomes, upon which the other would fall tooth 
and nail with famished voracity. I had no Ion* 
ger a doubt that I had happened upon a body of 
magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sci- 
ences. The scene reminded me of an old Ara- 
bian tale, of a philosopher shut up in an enchanted 
library, in the bosom of a mountain, which open- 
ed only once a year ; where he made the spirits 
of the place bring him books of all kinds of dark 
knowledge, so that at the end of the year, when 
the magic portal once more swung open on its 
hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, 
as to be able to soar above the heads of the mul- 
titude, and to control the powers of nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whis- 
pered to one of the familiars, as he was about to 
leave the room, andr begged an interpretation of 
the strange scene before me. A few words were 
sufficient for the purpose. I found that these 
mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for 
magi, were principally authors, and in the very 
act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in 
the reading-room of the great British Library — 
an immense collection of volumes of all ages and 
languages, many of which are now forgotten, and 
most of which are seldom read : one of these 
sequestered pools of obsolete literature, to which 
modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of 
classic lore, or " pure English, undefiled," where- 
«rith to swell their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sal 



THE AUT OF BOOK-MAKING. IQq 

down in a corner, and watched the process of this 
book-manufactory. I noticed one lean, bilious- 
looking wight, who sought none but the most 
worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He 
was evidently constructing some work of pro- 
found erudition, that would be purchased by 
every man who wished to bC' thought learned, 
placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or 
laid open upon his table ; but never read. I ob- 
served him, now and then, di'aw a large fragment 
of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether 
it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavor- 
ing to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach pro- 
duced by much pojidering over dry works, I leave 
to harder students than myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in 
bright-colored clothes, with a chirping, gossiping 
expression of countenance, who had all the ap- 
pearance of an author on good terms with his 
bookseller. After considerhig him attentively, I 
recognized in him a diligent getter-up of miscel- 
laneous works, which bustled off well with the 
trade. I was curious to see how he manufact- 
ured his wares. He made more stir and show of 
business than any of the others ; dipping into va- 
rious books, fluttering over the leaves of manu- 
Bcripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out 
^f another, " line upon line, precept upon precept, 
here a little and there a little." The contents of 
liis book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those 
of the witches' caldron in Macbeth. It was here 
a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind- 
worm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like 



110 TIJE SKETCH-BOOK. 

** baboon's blood," to make the medley " slab and 
good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering dis- 
position be implanted hi authors for wise pur- 
poses ; may it not be the way in which Provi- 
dence has taken care that the seeds of krowledse 
and wisdom shall .be preserved from age to age, 
in spite of the inevitable decay of the works in 
wliich they were first produced ? We see that 
nature has wisely, though whimsically, provided 
for the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, 
in the maws of certain birds ; so that animals, 
which, in themselves, are little better than car- 
rion, and apparently the lawless plundereru of the 
orchard and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's 
carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. 
In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of 
ancient and obsolete authors are caught up by 
these flights of predatory writers, and cast ferth 
again to flourish and bear fruit in a remote »Jid 
distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, 
undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up 
under new forms. What was formerly a ponder- 
ous history, revives m the shape of a romance — 
an old legend changes into a modern play — and 
a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body 
for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling es- 
says. Thus it is in the clearing of our American 
woodlands : where we burn down a forest of 
stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up 
in their place ; and we never see the prostrate 
trunk of a tree mouldering into soil, but it gives 
birth to a whole tribe of fungi. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. Ill 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and 
Dblivion into which ancient writers descend ; they 
do but submit to the great law of nature, wliicli 
declares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall 
be limited in their duration, but which decrees, 
also, that their elements shall never perish. Gen- 
eration after generation, both in animal and vege- 
table life, passes away, but the vital principle is 
transmitted to posterity, and the species continue 
to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, 
and having produced a numerous progeny, in a 
good old age they sleep with their fathers, that is 
to say, with the authors who preceded them — 
and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling 
fiuicies, I had leaned my head against a pile of 
reverend folios. Whether it was owing to the 
soporific emanations from these works ; or to the 
profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude 
arising from much wandering ; or to an unlucky 
habit of napping at improper times and places, 
with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, 
that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my imag- 
mation continued busy, and indeed the same scene 
remained before my mind's eye, only a little 
changed in some of the details. I dretunt that 
the chamber was still decorated with the portraits 
of ancient authors, but that the number was in- 
creased. The long tables had disappeared, and, 
in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, 
threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying 
about the great repository of cast-off clothes, Mon- 
mouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a book, 



112 THE ^KETCH-BOOK. 

by one of those incongruities common to dreams, 
methouglit it turned into a garment of foreign 3r 
antique fashion, with which they proceeded to 
equip themselves. I noticed, however, that no 
one pretended to clothe himself from any particu- 
lar suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from 
another, a skirt from a third, thus decking him- 
self out piecemeal, while some of his original rags 
would peep out from among his borrowed finery. 
There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, 
whom I observed ogling several mouldy polemical 
writers through an eye-glass. He soon contrived 
to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old 
fathers, and, having purloined the gray beard of 
another, endeavored to look exceedingly wise; 
but the smirking commonplace of his countenance 
set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. One 
sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering 
a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out 
of several old court-dresses of the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself mag- 
nificently from an illuminated manuscript, had 
stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from " The 
Paradise of Daintie Devices," and having put Sir 
Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, 
strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar ele- 
gance. A thii'd, who was but of puny dimen- 
Bions, had bolstered himself out bravely with the 
spoils from several obscure tracts of philosophy, 
BO that he had a very imposing front ; but he was 
lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that 
he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of 
parchment from a Latin author. 



THE ART OF B00K-MAKIN3. 113 

There were some well-clresscc! gentlemen, it i? 
true, who only helped themselves to a gem or so, 
whi(;h sparkled among tlieir own ornaments, with- 
out eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contem- 
plate the costumes of the old writers, merely to im- 
bibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air 
nnd spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many were 
apt to array themselves from top to toe in the 
patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not 
omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and 
gaiters, and an Ai'cadian hat, who had a violent 
propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wan- 
derings had been confined to the classic haunts of 
Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the Regent's 
Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and 
ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, hang- 
ing his head on one side, went about with a fan- 
tastical, lackadaisical air, " babbling about green 
fields." But tlie personage that most struck my 
attention was a pragmatical old gentleman, in cler- 
ical robes, with a remarkably large and square, 
but bald head. He entered the room wheezing 
and_putfing, elbowed his way through the throng, 
with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having 
laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it 
upon his head, and swept majestically away in a 
formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry 
suddenly resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! 
thieves ! " I looked, and lo ! the portraits about 
the wall became animated ! The old authors 
thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the 
canvas, looked do^\^l curiously, foi* an instant^ upon 



114 THE BKETCn-BOOK. 

the motley throng, and then descended with fury 
in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The 
Bcene^'of scampering and hubbub that ensued baf 
fles all description. The unhappy culprits en* 
deavored in vain to escape with their plunder 
On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, 
stripping a modern professor ; on another, there 
was sad devastation carried into the ranks of mod- 
ern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, 
side by side, raged round the field like Castor and 
Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more 
wonders than when a volunteer with the army ia 
Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler of 
farragos, mentioned some time since, he had ar- 
i-ayed himself in as many patches and colors as 
Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of 
claimants about him as about the dead body of 
Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, to 
whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe 
and reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag 
to cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was 
caliglit by the pragmatical old gentleman in the 
Greek grizzled wig, wlio was scrambling a^yay 
in sore afFriglit with half a score of authors in 
full cry after him ! They were close upon liis 
haunches : in a twinkling off went his wig ; at 
every turn some strip of raiment was peeled away ; 
until in a few moments, from his domineering 
[)omp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, " chopped bald 
shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and 
rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catas- 
trophe of this learned Theban, that T burst into an 



THE ART OF [iOOK-MAKING 115 

immoderate fit of laughter, which broke the whole 
illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were at an 
end. The chamber resumed its usual appear- 
ance. The old authors shrunk back into their 
picture-frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity 
along the walls. In short, 1 found myself wide 
awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage 
of book-worms gazing at me with astonishment. 
Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst 
of laughter, a sound never before heard in that 
grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of 
wisdom as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and de- 
manded whether I had a card of admission. At 
first I did not comprehend him, but I soon found 
that the library was a kind of literary " preserve," 
subject to game-laws, and that no one must pre- 
sume to hunt there without special license and 
permission. In a word, I stood convicted of 
being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a 
precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole 
pack of authors let loose upon me. 




A ROYAL POET 




Thonph yuur body be confined, 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 
Neither cheek nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. — Fletchkb. 

N a soft sunny morning in the genial 
^^jj month of May, I made an excursion tc 
^ Windsor Castle. It is a place full of 
storied and poetical associations. The very ex- 
ternal aspect of the proud old pile is enough to 
inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls 
find massive towers, like a mural crown, round 
the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner 
in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly air, 
upon the surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of that vo- 
luptuous vernal kind, which calls forth all the la- 
tent romance of a man's temperament, filling his 
mind with music, and disposing him to quote po- 
etry and dream of beauty. In wandering through 
the magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries 
of the castle, I passed with indifference by whole 
rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, that 
lingered in tlve chamber- where hang the like- 
nesses of the beauties which graced the gay court 
'>f CMiarles the Second; and as I gazed upon flu tm, 



A ROYAL POET. 117 

depicted with amorous, half-dishevelled tresses, 
and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of 
Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to 
bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In travers- 
ing also the " large green courts," with sunshine 
beaming on the gray walls, and glancing along 
the velvet turf, my mind was engi'ossed with the 
image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Sur- 
rey, and his account of his loiterings about them 
in his stripling days, when enamored of the Lady 
Geraldine — 

" With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I 
visited the ancient Keep of the Castle, where 
James the First of Scotland, the pride and theme 
of Scottish poets and historians, was for many 
years of his youth detained a prisoner of state. 
It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt 
of ages, and is still in good preservation. It 
stands on a mound, which elevates it above the 
other parts of the castle, and a great flight of 
steps leads to the interior. In the armory, a 
Gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various 
kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor 
hanging against the wall, whicli had once belong- 
<m1 to James. Hence I was conducted up a stair- 
case to a suite of apartments of faded magnifi- 
cence, hung with storied tapestry, which formed 
his prison, and the scene of that passionate and 
fanciful amour, which has woven into the web ol 
his story the nmgical hues of poetry and fiction 



118 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfor- 
tunate prince is highly romantic. At the tender 
age of eleven he was sent from home by his father, 
Robert III., and destined for the French court, 
to be reared under the eye of the French mon- 
arch, secure from the treachery and danger that 
suiTounded the royal house of Scotland. It was 
his mishap in the course of his voyage to fall 
into the hands of the English, and' he was detain- 
ed prisoner by Henry IV., notwithstanding tliat 
a truce existed between the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the 
train of many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal 
to his unhappy father. " The news," we are told, 
" was brought to him while at supper, and did so 
overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost 
ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the 
servant that attended him. But being carried to 
his bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, and 
in three days died of hunger and grief at Roth- 
esay." * 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen 
years ; but though deprived of personal liberty, 
he was treated with the respect due to his rank. 
Care was taken to instruct him in all the branches 
of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, 
and to give him those mental and personal ac- 
complishments deemed proper for a prince. Per- 
haps, in this respect, his imprisonment was an 
advantage, as it enabled him to apply himself the 
more exclusively to liis improvement, and quietly 
lo imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to 
* Buchanan. 



A ROYAL POET. 119 

cherish those elegant tastes which have given 
such a histre to his memory. The picture drawn 
of him in early life, by the Scottish histori«,ns, ia 
liighly captivating, and seems rather the descrip- 
tion of a hero of romance than of a character in 
real history. He was well learnt, we are told, 
" to fight with the sword, to joust, to tourney, to 
wi'estle, to smg and dance ; he was an expert 
mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute 
and hai'p, and sundry other mstruments of music, 
and was expert in grammar, oratory, and po- 
etry." * 

With this combination of manly and delicate 
accomplishments, fitting him to shine both in ac- 
tive and elegant life, and calculated to give him 
an intense relish for joyous existence, it must have 
been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chiv- 
alry, to pass the springtime of his years in monoto- 
nous captivity. It was the good fortune of James, 
however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fan- 
cy, and to be visited in his prison by the choicest 
inspirations of the muse. Some minds corrode 
and grow inactive under the loss of personal lib- 
erty ; others grow morbid and irritable ; but it is 
the nature of the poet to become tender and im- 
aginative in the loneliness of confinement. He 
banquets upon the honey of liis own thoughts, and, 
like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 

In that her lonely hermitage ! 

• Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 



1 20 THE SKET CII BOOK. 

Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.* 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagi 
nation, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that 
when the real world is shut out, it can create a 
world for itself, and with a necromantic power 
can conjure up glorious shapes and forma, and 
brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, and 
irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the 
world of pomp and pageant that lived round 
Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he con- 
ceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and 
we may consider the " King's Quair," composed 
by James during his captivity at Windsor, as an- 
other of those beautiful breakings-forth of the soul 
from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the 
lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Som- 
erset, and a princess of the blood royal of Eng- 
land, of whom he became enamored in the course 
of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, 
is that it may be considered a transcript of tho 
royal bard's true feelings, and the story of his 
real loves and fortunes. It is not often that sov- 
ereigns write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. 
It is gratifying to the pride of a common man, to 
find a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admis- 
sion into his closet, and seeking to win his favor 
by adnunistering to his pleasures. It is a proof 
of the honest equality of intellectual competition 
which strips off all the trappings of factitious dig 
oity, brings the candidate down to a level wit^ 
* Roger L'Estrange. 



A ROYAL POET. 121 

!iis fellow-men, and obligees hirn to depend on liia 
own native powers for distinction. It is cnrious, 
too, to get at tlie history of a monarch's heart, 
add to find the simple atfections of human nature 
throbbing under the ermine. But James had 
li'aint to be a poet before he was a king : he was 
-rliooled in .adversity, and reared in the company 
of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom 
lime to parley with their hearts, or to meditate 
their minds into poetry ; and had James been 
brought up amidst the adulation and gayety of a 
court, we should never, in all probability, have 
had such a poem as the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those 
parts of the poem which breathe his immediate 
thoughts concerning his situation, or which are 
connected with the apartment in the tower. They 
liav^e thus a personal and local charm, and are 
gi^'en with such circumstantial truth as to make 
• ]\c reader present with the captive in his prison, 
and the companion of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his wea- 
riness of spirit, and of the incident which first 
suggested the idea of writing the poem. It Avas 
the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night ; the 
stars, he says, were twinkluig as fire in the high 
vault of heaven : and " Cynthia rinsing her golden 
locks in Aquarius." He lay in bed wakeful and 
restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious 
liours. The book he chose was Boetius's Con- 
solations of Philosophy, a work popular among the 
writers of that day, and which had been tranS' 
ated by his great prototype, Chaucer. From the 



122 rilE SK ETC IT-BO OK. 

high eulogiiim in which he indulges, it is evident 
this was one of his favorite volumes while in 
prison ; and indeed it is an admirable text-book 
for meditation under adversity. It is the legacy 
of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrow 
and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in 
calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the 
trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which 
it was enabled to bear up against the various ills 
')f life. It is a talisman, which the unfortunate 
•nay treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good 
K!uig James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 

After closing the volume, he turns its contents 
over in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of 
rausing on the fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes 
of his own life, and the evils that had overtaken 
him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears 
the bell ringing to matins ; but its sound, chiming 
in with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like 
a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the 
spirit of poetic errantry he determines to comply 
with this intimation : he therefore takes pen in 
hand, makes with it a sign of the cross to implore 
a benediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land 
of poetry. There is something extremely fanci- 
ful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a 
striking and beautiful instance of the simple man- 
ner in which whole trains of poetical thought are 
sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises sug- 
gested to the mind. 

In the course of his poem he more than once 
oewails the peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus 
doomed to lonely and inactive life, and shut up 



A ROYAL POET. 123 

from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in 
which the meanest animal indidges unrestrained. 
I'here is a sweetness, however, in his very com- 
plaints ; they are the lamentations of an amiably 
and social spirit at being denied the indulgence of 
its kind and generous propensities ; there is noth- 
ing in them harsh nor exaggerated; they flow 
Avith a natural and touching pathos, and are per- 
haps rendered more touching by their simple brev- 
ity. They contrast finely with those elaborate 
and iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet 
with in poetry; — the effusions of morbid minds 
sickening under miseries of their own creating, 
and venting their bitterness upon an unoffending 
world. James speaks of his privations with acute 
sensibility, but having mentioned them passes on, 
as if his manly mind disdained to brood over un- 
avoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks 
forth into complaint, however brief, we are aware 
how great must be the suffering that extorts the 
murmur. We sympathize with James, a roman- 
tic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the 
lustihood of youth from all the enterprise, the no- 
ble uses, and vigorous delights of life, as we do 
with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature 
and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief, 
but deep -toned lamentations over his perpetual 
blindness. 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic 
artifice, we might almost have suspected that 
^hese lowerings of gloomy reflection were meant 
is preparative to the brightest scene of his story ; 
and to contrast with that refulgence of liirht and 



i24 inE BKETCn-BOOK. 

loveliness, that exhilarating aceompaiiimont of bird 
Mid sous:, and foliage and flower, and all the revel 
of the year, with which he ushers in the lady of 
his heart. It is this scene, in particular, which 
throws all the magic of romance about the eld 
Castle Keep. He had risen, he says, at daybreak, 
according to custom, to escape from the dreary 
Hieditations of a sleepless pillow. " Bewailing 
in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy 
and remedy, " fortired of thought and wobegone," 
lie had wandered to the window, to indulge the 
captive's miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon 
the world from which he is excluded. The win- 
dow looked forth upon a small garden which lay 
at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, shel- 
tered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, 
and protected from the passing gaze by trees and 
hawthorn hedges. 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 
A garden faire, and in the corners set 

An arbour green with wandis long and small 
Railed about, and so with leaves beset 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
That lyf * was none, waliiyng there forbye 
That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
Beshaded. all the alleys that there were, 

And midst of every arbour might be sene 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, 

Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
That as it seemed to a lyf without. 
The boughs did spread the arbour ail about 

And on the small grene twistis t set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 

* Lyf, Person. t Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 

Note. — The language of the quotations is generally mod 
ernized. 



A ROYAL POET. \%J^ 

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
That all the garden and the wallis rung 
Right of their song 

It was the mouth of May, when everytliing 
was in bloom ; and he interprets the song of the 
iiiglitiugale into the language of his enamored 
feeling : — 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this Ma; 

For of your bliss tlie kalends are begun, 
And sing with us, away, winter, away, 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the 
notes of the birds, he gradually relapses into one 
of those tender and undefinable reveries which 
fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. 
He wonders what this love may be, of which he 
has so often read, and which thus seems breathed 
forth in the quickening breath of May, and melt- 
ing all nature into ecstasy and song. If it really 
be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus gen- 
erally dispensed to the most insignificant beings, 
vvhy is he alone cut off from its enjoyments ? 

Oft would I think, Lord, what may this be, 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde? 

Loving his foike, and such prosperitee 
Is it of him, as we in books do find: 
May he oure hertes setteii * and unbynd: 

Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 

Or is all this but feynit fantasj'e? 

For gitf he be of so gret^ excellence. 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilt t to him, or done offense, 
That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large? 

* Beiten, incline, f Gilt, what injur}' have I done, etc 



126 I'm-: hkktch-hook. 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye 
downward, he beholds " the faii'est and the fresh 
est young floure " that ever he had seen. It \% 
the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to 
enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May morrowe." 
Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight, in the 
moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, 
she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic 
prince, and becomes the object of his wandering 
wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident re- 
semblance to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's 
Tale ; where Palamon and Arcite fall in love 
with Emilia, whom they see walking in the gar- 
den of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of 
the actual fact to the incident which he had read 
in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on 
it in his poem. His description of the Lady 
Jane is given in the picturesque and minute man- 
ner of his master; and being doubtless taken 
from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of 
that day. He dwells, with the fondness of a lovei-, 
on every article of her apparel, from the net of 
pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that 
confined her golden hair, even to the " goodly 
chaine of small orfeverye " * about her neck, 
whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, 
that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning 
upon her white bosom. Her dress of white tis- 
sue was looped up to enable her to walk with 
more freedom. She was accompanied by two 
female attendants, and about her sported a little 
hound decorated with bells ; probably the small 

* Wrought oold. 



A ROYAL POET. 127 

Italian hound of exquisite symmetry, which was 
a parlor favorite and pet among the flishionable 
dames of ancient times. James closes his de- 
scription by a burst of general eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature; 

God better knows tlien my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse,* estate, t and cunning J sure, 

In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. 
That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden 
puts an end to this transient riot of the heart. 
With her departs the amorous illusion that had 
shed a temporary charm over the scene of his 
captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now 
rendered tenfold more intolerable by this passing 
beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long 
and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, 
and when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as 
he beautifully expresses it, had "bade farewell 
to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at the 
window, and, laying his head upon the cold stone, 
gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, 
until, gradually lulled by tire mute melancholy 
of the twilight hour, he lapses, "half sleeping, 
half swoon," into a vision, which occupies the re- 
mainder of the poem, and in which is allegorically 
shadowed out the history of his passion. 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises h'om 
(lis stony pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full 
!>f dreary reflections, questions his spirit, whithtji i( 

* Lai' ff esse, bounty. t Estate, dignitj. 

t Cunning, discretion. 



128 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

lias been wandering ; whether, indeed, all that has 
passed before his dreaming fancy has been con- 
jured up by precedhig cu'cumstances ; or whetlier 
it is a vision, intended to comfort and assure him 
in his despondency. If the latter, he prays that 
some token may be sent to confirm the promise 
of happier days, given him in his slumbers. 
Suddenly, a turtle-dove, of the purest whiteness, 
comes flying in at the window, and alights upon 
liis hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red 
gilly^ower, on the leaves of which is written, in 
letters of gold, the following sentence : — 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 

Of thy comfort; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope 
diid dread ; reads it with rapture : and this, he 
says, was the first token of his succeeding happi- 
ness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or 
whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a 
token of her fiivor in this romantic way, remains 
to be determhied according to the faith or fancy of 
the reader. He concludes his poem by intimating 
that the promise conveyed in the vision and by 
the flower is fulfilled, by his being restored to 
liberty, and made happy in the possession of tlie 
sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James 
of his love adventures in Windsor Castle. How 
mach of it is absolute fact, and how much the 
embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to conject- 
ure: let us not, however, reject every romantic 



A ROYAL POET. 129 

incident as incompatible With real life ; but let . 
us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have 
noticed merely those parts of the poem immedi- 
ately connected with the tower, and have passed 
over a large part, written in the allegorical vein, 
so much cultivated at that day. The language, 
of course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the 
beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely 
be perceived at the present day ; but it is impos- 
sible not to be charmed with the genuine sen- 
timent, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, 
wliich prevail throughout it. The descriptions 
of nature, too, with which it is embellished, are 
given with a truth, a discrimination, and a fresh- 
ness, worthy of the most cultivated periods of 
the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these 
days of coarser thinking, to notice the nature, re- 
finement, and exquisite delicacy which pervade 
it ; banishing every gross thought or immodest ex- 
pression, and presentmg female loveliness, clothed 
in all its chivalrous attributes of almost super- 
natural purity and gracG. 

James flourished nearly about the time of 
Chaucer and Gower, and was evidently an admirer 
and studier of their writings. Indeed, in one of 
his stanzas he acknowledges them as his mastei*s ; 
and, m some parts of his poem, we find traces of 
similarity to their productions, more especially to 
those of Chaucer. There are always, however, 
general features of resemblance in the works of 
contemporary authors, which are not so much 
borrowed from each other as from the time? 



180 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

.Writers, like bees, toll their sweets in the wide 
world ; they incorporate with then* own concep- 
tions the anecdotes and thoughts current in soci- 
ety ; and thus each generation has some features 
in common, characteristic of the age in which it 
lived. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras 
of our literary liistory, and establishes the claims 
of his country to a participation in its primitive 
honors. Whilst a small cluster of English Avriters 
are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, 
the name of their great Scottish compeer is apt 
to be passed over in silence ; but he is evidently 
worthy of being enrolled in that little constella- 
tion of remote but never-failing luminaries, who 
shine in the highest firmament of literature, and 
who, like morning stars, sang together at the 
bright dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar 
with Scottish history (though the manner in which 
it has of late been Avoven with captivating fiction 
has made it a universal study), may be curious 
to learn something of the subsequent history of 
James, and the fortunes of his love. His pas- 
sion for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his 
captivity, so it facilitated his release, it being im- 
agined by the court that a connection with the 
blood royal of England would attach him to its 
own interests. He was ultimately restored to 
liis liberty and crown, having previously espoused 
the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scot- 
land, and made him a most tender and devoted 
wife 



A ROYAL POET. 131 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the 
feudal chieftains having taken advantage of the 
troubles and irreguhirities of a long interregnum 
to strengthen tliemselves in their possessions, and 
place themselves alcove the power of the laws. 
James sought to found the basis of his power in 
the affections of his people. He attached the 
lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, 
the temperate and equable administration of jus- 
tice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, and 
the promotion of everything that could diffuse 
comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment 
through the humblest ranks of society. He 
mingled occasionally among the common people 
in disguise ; visited their firesides ; entered into 
their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; 
informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how 
they could best be patronized and improved ; and 
was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching with a 
benevolent eye over the meanest of his subjects. 
Having in this generous manner made himself 
strong in the hearts of the common people, he 
turned himself to curb the power of the factious 
nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous immu- 
nities which they had usurped ; to punish such as 
had been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring 
the whole into proper obedience to the crown. 
For some time they bore this with outward sub- 
mission, but with secret impatience and brooding 
resentment. A conspiracy was at length formed 
against his life, at the head of which was his own 
uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being 
too old himself for the perpetration of the deed 



152 . THE SKErcn-BOOK. 

.■)f blood, instigated his grandson Sir Robert Ste 
wart, together with Sir Robert Graham, and others 
of less note, to commit the deed. They broke into 
his bed-chamber at the Dominican Convent near 
Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously mur- 
dered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful 
queen, rushing to throw her tender body between 
him and the sword, was twice wounded in the in- 
effecjtual attempt to shield him from the assassin • 
Rnd it was not until she ' had been forcibly tori? 
from his person, that the murder was accom 
plished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of 
former times, and of the golden little poem which 
had its birthplace in this Tower, that made me 
visit the old pile with more than common inter- 
est. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, 
richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in the 
tourney, brought the image of the gallant and 
romantic prince vividly before my imagination. 
I paced the deserted chambers where he had com- 
posed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and 
endeavored to persuade myself it was the very 
one where he had been visited by his vision ; 1 
looked out upon the spot where he had first seen 
the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joy- 
ous month ; the birds were again vying with each 
other in strains of liquid melody ; everything was 
bursting into vegetation, and budding forth the 
tender promise of the year. Time, which de- 
lights to obliterate the sterner memorials of 
human pride, seems to have passed lightly over 
this little scene of poetry and love, and to have 



A ROYAL POUT. 133 

withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries 
have gone by, yet the garden still nourishes at the 
foot of the Tower. It occupies what was once 
the. moat of the Keep ; and though some paits 
liave been separated by dividing Avails, yet othei-s 
have still their arbors and shaded walks, as in the 
days of James, and the whole is sheltered, bloom- 
ing, and retired. There is a charm about a spot 
that has been printed by (he footsteps of departed 
beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of 
the poet, which is heightened, rather than im- 
paired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the 
gift of poetry to hallow every place in which it 
moves ; to breathe around nature an odor more 
exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to 
shed over it a tint more magical than the blush 
of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of 
James as a warrior and a legislator ; but I have 
delighted to view him merely as the companion 
of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human 
heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the 
sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of 
common life. He was the first to cultivate the 
vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which 
has since become so prolific of the most whole- 
some and highly flavored fruit. He carried witli 
iiim into the sterner regions of the north all the 
fertihzing arts of southern refinement. He did 
everything in his power to win his countrymen to 
the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, which soften 
and refine the character of a people, and wreatlie 
a grace round the loftiness of a proud and wiir- 



134 THE SKETCU-BOOK. 

like spirit. He wrote many poems, which, un- 
fortunately for the fuhiess of his fame, are now 
lost to the world ; one, which is still preserved, 
called " Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows how 
diligently he had made himself acquainted with 
the rustic sports and pastimes, which constitute 
such a source of kind and social feeling among 
the Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and 
happy humor he could enter into their enjoyments. 
He contributed greatly to improve the national 
music ; and traces of his tender sentiment and 
elegant taste are said to exist in those witching 
airs, still piped among the wild mountains and 
lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected 
his image with whatever is most gracious and 
endearing in the national character ; he has em- 
balmed his memory in song, and floated his name 
to after-ages in the rich streams of Scottish mel- 
ody. The recollection of these things was kindling 
at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his 
imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse with as 
much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the 
shrine at Loretto ; but I have never felt more 
poetical devotion than when contemplathig the 
old Tower and the little garden at Windsor, and 
musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane 
and the Royal Poet of Scotland. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 



A gentleman ! 
What, o' the Woolpack? or the sugar-chest? 
Or lists of velvet? which is 't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by ? 

Beggar's Bush. 

HERE are few places more favorable to 
the study of character than an English 
^^S^'-^^ country church. I was once passing a 
few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in 
the vicinity of one, the appearance of which par- 
ticularly struck my fancy. It was one of those 
rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give such 
a peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood 
in the midst of a country filled with ancient fam- 
ilies, and contained, within its cold and silent 
aisles, the congregated dust of many noble gener- 
ations. The interior walls were incrusted with 
monuments of every age and style. The light 
streamed through windows dimmed with armorial 
bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In 
various parts of the church were tombs of knights 
and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, 
with their etfigies in colored marble. On every 
side the eye was struck with some instance of as- 
piruig mortality ; some haughty memorial which 
human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in 
''iiis temple of the most humble of all religions. 



136 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The congregation was composed of the neigh- 
boring people of rank, who sat in pews, sumptu- 
ously lined and cushioned, furnished with richly 
gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their 
arms upon the pew-doors; of the villagers and 
peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small 
gallery beside the organ ; and of the poor of the 
parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, well- 
fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the 
church. He was a privileged guest at all the 
tables of the neighborhood, and had been the 
keenest fox-hunter in the country ; until age and 
good living had disabled him from doing any- 
thing more than ride to see the hounds throw 
off, and make one at the hunting-dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found ij 
impossible to get into the train of thought suit- 
able to the time and place : so, having, like many 
other feeble Christians, compromised with my 
conscience, by laying the sin of my own delin- 
quency at another person's threshold, I occupied 
myself by making observations on my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curi- 
ous to notice the manners of its fashionable 
classes. I found, as usual, that there was the 
least pretension where there was the most ac- 
knowledged title to respect. I was particularly 
struck, for instance, with the family of a noble- 
man of high rank, consisting of several sons and 
daughters. Nothing could be more simple and 
unassuming than their appearance. They gener- 
ally came to church in the plainest equipyge. tmtJ 



FEE COUNTRY CIIURCH. 137 

often on foot. Tlie young ladles would stop and 
converse in the kindest manner with the peas- 
antry, caress the children, and listen to the 
stories of the humble cottageis. Their counte- 
nances were open and beautifully fair, with an 
expression of high refinement, but, at the same 
time, a frank cheerfulness, and an engaging affa- 
bility. Their brothers \^'ere tall, and elegantly 
formed. They were dressed fashionably, but 
simply ; with strict neatness and propriety, but 
without any mannerism or foppishness. Their 
whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that 
lofty grace aL \ noble frankness which bespeak 
freeborn souls that have never been checked in 
their growth by feelings of inferiority. There 
is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, that 
never dreads contact and communion with others, 
however humble. It is only spurious pride that 
is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every 
touch. I was pleased to see the manner in 
which they would converse with the peasantry 
about those rural concerns and field - sports in 
which the gentlemen of this country so much de- 
light. In these conversations there was neithei 
haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the 
other ; and you were only remuided of the differ 
en(;e of rank by the habitual respect of the peas* 
ant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy 
citizen, who had amassed a vast fortune ; and, 
having purchased the estate and mansion of a 
rained nobleman in the neighborhood, was en- 
deavoring to assume all the style and dignity of 



138 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

an hereditary lord of the soil. The family al- 
ways came to church en prince. They were 
rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazon- 
ed with arms. The crest glittered in silver radi- 
ance from every part of the harness where a 
crest could possibly be placed. A fat coachman, 
in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen 
wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated 
on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. 
Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, with huge 
bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. 
The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs 
with peculiar stateliness of motion. The very 
horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and 
glanced their eyes more proudly than common 
horses ; either because they had caught a little of 
the family feeling, or were reined up more tightly 
than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which 
this splendid pageant was brought up to the gate 
of the churchyard. There was a vast effect pro- 
duced at the turning of an angle of the wall ; — 
a great smacking of the whip, straining and 
scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, and 
flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the 
moment of triumph and vainglory to the coach- 
man. The horses were urged and checked until 
they were fretted into a foam. They threw out 
their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about peb- 
bles at every step. The crowd of villagers saun- 
tering quietly to church, opened precipitately to 
the right and left, gapmg in vacant admiration 
On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up 



THE COUNTRY CUURCH. 139 

with a suddenness that produced an immediate 
stop, and almost threw them on their haimches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the foot- 
man to alight, pull down the steps, and prepare 
everything for the descent on earth of this august 
family. The old citizen first emerged his round 
red face from out the door, looking about him 
with the pompous air of a man accustomed to 
rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market 
with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfort- 
able dame, followed him. There seemed, I must 
confess, but little pride in her composition. She 
was the picture of broad, honest vulgar enjoy 
ment. The world went well with her ; and she 
liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine 
house, a fine carriage, fine children, everything 
was fine about her : it was nothing but driving 
about, and visiting and feasting. Life was to her 
a perpetual revel ; it wias one long Lord Mayor's 
day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. 
They certainly were handsome ; but had a super- 
ciUous air, that chilled admiration, and disposed 
the spectator to be critical. They were ultra- 
fashionable in dress ; and, though no one could 
deny the richness of their decorations, yet their 
appropriateness might be questioned amidst the 
simplicity of a country church. They descended 
loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line 
of peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of 
the soil it trod on. They cast an exclusive 
glance around, that passed coldly over the burly 
^iaces of the peasantry, until tliey met the eyes oi 



140 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tlie nobleman's flimily, when their countenances 
immediately brightened into smiles, and they 
made the most profound and elegant courtesies, 
which were returned in a manner that showed 
they were but slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring 
citizen, who came to church m a dashing curricle, 
with outriders. They were arrayed in the ex- 
tremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of 
dress which marks the man of questionable pre- 
tensions to style. They kept entirely by them- 
selves, eying every one askance that came near 
them, as if measuring his claims to respectability ; 
yet they were without conversation, except the 
exchange of an occasional cant phrase. They 
even moved artificially ; for their bodies, in com- 
pliance with the caprice of the day, had been 
disciplined into the absence of all ease and free- 
dom. Art had done everything to accomplish 
them as men of fashion, but nature had denied 
them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly 
shaped, like men formed for the common purposes 
of life, and had that air of supercilious assump- 
tion which is never seen in the true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pict- 
ures of these two families, because I considered 
(hem specimens of what is often to be met with 
in this country — the unpretending great, and the 
arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, 
unless it be accompanied with true nobility of 
6oul ; but I have remarked in all countries where 
artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest 
classes are always the most courteous and unas- 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. M\ 

Burning. Those who are well assured of their 
own standing are least apt to trespass on that of 
others ; whereas nothing is so offensive as the 
aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate it- 
self by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, 
I must notice their behavior in church. That of 
the nobleman's family was quiet, serious, and 
attentive. Not that they appeared to have any 
fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred 
things, and sacred places, mseparable from good 
breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in 
a perpetual flutter and whisper; they betrayed 
a continual consciousness of finery, and a sorry 
ambition of being the wonders of a rural con- 
gregation. 

Tlie old gentleman was the only one really at- 
tentive to the service. He took the whole bur- 
den of family devotion upon himself, standing 
bolt upright, and uttering the responses with a 
loud voice that might be heard all over the 
church. It was evident that he was one of 
those thorough church and king men, who con- 
nect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who con- 
sider the Deity, somehoAV or other, of the govern- 
ment party, and religion " a very excellent sort 
of thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept 

Wlien he joined so loudly in the service, it 
seemed more .by way of example to the lower 
orders, to show them that, though so great and 
wealthy, he was not above being religious ; as I 
aave seei a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly 



142 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a basin of cliarity soup, smacking liis lips at every 
mouthful, and pronouncing it " excellent food for 
tke poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was cu- 
rious to witness the several exits of my groups. 
The young noblemen and their sisters, as the 
day was fine, preferred strolling home across 
the fields, cliatting with the country people as 
they went. The others departed as they, came, 
in grand parade. Again were the equipages 
wheeled up to the gate. There was again the 
smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and 
the glittering of harness. The horses started off 
almost at a bound ; the villagers again hurried 
to right and left ; the wheels threw up a cloud 
of dust ; and the aspiring family was rapt out of 
sight in a whirlwind. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 143 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 




Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. 

Makrloave's Tamburlaine. 

'HOSE who are in the habit of remark- 
ing such matters, must have noticed the 
passive quiet of an English landscape 
on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regu- 
larly recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the 
blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the plough- 
man, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds 
of rural labor are suspended. The very farm- 
dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed by 
passing travellers. At such times I have almost 
fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the 
sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints melting 
into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm. 

Sweet da}', so pure, so cahn, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordamed that the day of devotion 
should be a day of rest. The holy repose which 
reigns over the face of nature has its moral in 
fluence ; every restless passion is charmed down, 
and we feel the natural religion of the soul gently 
springing up within us. For my part, there are 
feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid 



144 THE HKETCH-BOVK 

the beantifiil serenity of nature, which I expe- 
rience nowhere else ; and if not a more relig- 
ious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than 
on any other day of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the coantry, I 
Dsed frequently to attend at the old village church. 
Its shadowy aisles ; its mouldering monuments ; its 
dark oaken panelling, all reverend Avith the gloom 
of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of 
solemn meditation ; bat being in a wealthy, aris- 
tocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion pene- 
tnited even into the sanctuary ; and I felt myself 
continually throAvn back upon the world by the 
frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. 
The only being in the whole congregation who ap- 
peared thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate 
piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old 
woman, bending under the weight of years and in- 
firmities. She bore the traces of something better 
than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent 
pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, 
though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously 
clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded 
her, for she did not take her seat among the village 
poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. Slio 
seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all 
society j and to have nothing left her but the hopes 
of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and 
bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually con- 
ning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and 
failmg eyes would not permit her to read, but 
vvhich she evidently knew by heart ; I felt per- 
suaded that the faltermg voice of that poor woman 



TUE WIDOW AND HER HON. 145 

arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, 
the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 
J am fond of loiteruig about country churches ; 
and this was so deliglitfully situated, that it fre- 
quently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round 
\> hicli a small stream made a beautiful bend, and 
then wound its way through a long reach of soft 
meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by 
yew-trees which seemed almost coeval with itself. 
Its tall Gothic spu'e shot up lightly from among 
them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling 
about it. "I was seated there one still sunny morn- 
ing, watching two laborers who were digging a 
grave. They had chosen one of the most remote 
and neglected corners of the churchyard ; where, 
from the number of nameless graves around, it 
would appear that the indigent and friendless were 
huddled into the earth. I was told that the new- 
made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. 
While I was meditating on the distinctions of 
worldly rank, which extend thus down into the 
very dust, the toll of the bell announced the ap- 
proach of the funeral. They were the obsequies 
of poverty, with which pride had nothuig to do. 
A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or 
other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. 
The sexton walked before with an air of cold in- 
diiference. There were no mock mournei's in the 
trappings of affected woe ; but there was one real 
mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It 
was the aged mother of the deceased, the poor 
old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps 
of the altar. She was supported by an humble 
10 



i46 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A 
few of tlie ncigliboring poor had joined the train, 
and sofiie children of the village were running 
hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, 
and now pausing to gaze, with childisli curiosity, 
on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, Ihe 
parson issued forth from the church-porch, arrayed 
in the surplice, witli prayer-book in hand, and at- 
tended by the clerk. The service, however, was a 
mere act of charity. The deceased had been des- 
titute, and the survivor was penniless. It was 
sliuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and 
unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few 
steps from the church-door ; his voice could scarce- 
ly be heard at tlie grave ; and never did I hear the 
funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremo- 
ny, turjied into such a frigid mummery of words. 

I a])proached the grave. The cotfin was placed 
on the ground. On it were inscribed the name 
and age of the deceased — " George Somers, aged 
26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to 
kneel down at the head of it. Her withered har.ds 
were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could perceive 
by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsi ^e 
motion of her lips, that she was gazing on the last 
relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother's 
heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in 
the earth. There was that bustling stir which 
breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affec- 
lioa ; directions given in the cold tones of business 
the striking of spades into sand and gravel ; which. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 147 

at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the 
most withering. The bustle around seemed tc 
waken the mother from a wretched revei'ie. She 
raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a 
faint \\dldness. . As the men approached with coixls 
to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her 
hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor 
woman who attended her took her by the arm. en- 
deavoi-ing to raise her from the earth, and to whis- 
per something like consolation, — " Nay, now — 
nay, now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She 
could only shake her head and wring her hands, as 
one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the 
creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her ; but 
when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a 
justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the 
mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to 
him who was far beyond tlie reach of worldly suf- 
fering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my 
throat — my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I 
were acting a barbarous part in standing by, and 
gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I 
wandered to another part of the churchyard, where 
I remained until the funeral tram had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully 
quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains 
Df all that was dear to her on earth, and return 
ing to silence and destitution, my heart ached for 
tier. What, thought I, are the distresses of the 
rich ! They have friends to soothe — pleasures tc 
beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their 



148 rUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! Their 
growing minds soon close above the wound — their 
elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — 
dieir green and ductile affections soon twine round 
oow objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who 
have no outward appliances to soothe, — the sor- 
jows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a 
wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth 
c^' j*^y) — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, 
destitute, mourning over an only son, the last sol- 
ace of her years : these are indeed sorrows which 
make us feel the impotency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the clmrchyard. 
( )!i my way homeward I met with tlie woman 
^.ho had acted as comforter: she was just return- 
ing from accompanying the mother to her lonely 
habitation, and I drew from her some particulars 
comiected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased liad resided in the 
village from childhood. They had inhabited one 
of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occu- 
pations, and the assistance of a small garden, had 
supported themselves creditably and comfortably, 
and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one 
son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride 
of their age. — " Oh, sir ! " said the good woman, 
" he w^as such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so 
kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his 
parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a 
Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, 
so cheery, supporting his old mother to church, — 
for she was always fonder of leaning on George's 
arm than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 149 

might well be proud of liim, for a finer lad there 
was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a 
year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter 
into the service of one of the small craft that plied 
on a neighboring river. He had not been long in 
this employ when he was entrapped by a press- 
gang, and carried oiF to sea. His parents received 
tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could 
learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. 
The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless 
and melancholy, and sunk mto his grave. The 
widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could 
110 longer support herself, and came upon the parish 
Still there was a kind feeling toward her tln'ough^ 
out the village, and a certain respect as being one 
of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for 
the cottage, in which she had passed so many happy 
days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she 
lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants 
of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty pro- 
ductions of her little garden, which the neighbors 
would now and then cultivate for her. It was but 
a few days before the time at which these circum- 
stances were told me, that she was gathering some 
vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cot- 
tage-door which faced the garden suddenly opened. 
A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking 
eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in 
seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, 
and bore the air of one broken by sickness and 
lardships. He saw her, and hastened towards her 
out his steps Avere faint and faltering ; he sank on 



150 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The 
poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and 
wandi^.ring eye, — " Oh, ray dear, dear mother ! 
don't you know your son? your poor boy, 
George ? " It was indeed the wreck of her once 
noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness 
and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged 
his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the 
scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such 
a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so complete- 
ly blended : still he was alive ! he was come home ! 
/le might yet live to comfort and cherish her old 
age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him; and 
if anything had been wanting to finish the work 
of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would 
have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the 
pallet on which his widowed mother had passed 
many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it 
again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George 
Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering 
every comfort and assistance that their humble 
means afforded. He was too weak, however, to 
talk — he could only look his thanks. His mother 
was his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwill- 
ing to be helped by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down 
the pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and 
brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that 
has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness 
and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary 
bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. \^\ 

but has thought on the mother " that looked on his 
childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and adminis- 
tered to his helplessness ? Oh ! there is an endur- 
ing tenderness in the love of a mother to her son 
that transcends all other affections of the heart. 
It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunt- 
ed by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor 
stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every 
comfort to his convenience; she will surrender 
every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in 
his fame, and exult in his prosperity ; — and, if 
misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to 
her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon 
his name, she will still love and cherish him in 
spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world beside 
cast him off, she will be all the world to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to 
be in sickness, and none to soothe, — lonely and in 
prison, and none to visit him. He could not en- 
dure his mother from his sight; if she moved 
away, his eye would follow her. She would sit 
for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. 
Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, 
and look anxiously up until he saw her bending 
over him ; when he would take her hand, lay it 
on his bosom, and fall asleep, with the tranquillity 
of a child. In this way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of 
affliction was to visit the cottage of the mourner, 
and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possi- 
ble, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that 
the good feelings of the villagers had prompted 
them to do everything that the case admitted; 



162 THE SKETCH- 30 OK. 

and as tlie poor know best how to console each 
other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; 
when, to my surprise, [ saw the poor old womaL 
tottei'ing down the aisle to her accustomed seat od 
the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like 
mourning for her son ; and nothing could be more 
touching than this struggle between pious afFectioD 
and utter poverty : a black ribbon or so' a faded 
black handkerchief, and one or two more such 
humble attempts to express by outward signs that 
grief which passes show. When I looked round 
upon the storied monuments, the stately hatch- 
ments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur 
mourned magnificently over departed pdde, and 
turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and 
sorrow, at the altar of her God, and offering up the 
prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken 
heart, I felt that this living monument of real gxief 
was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy mem- 
bers of the congregation, and they were moved by 
it. They exerted themselves to render her situa- 
tion more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. 
It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the 
grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, 
she was missed from her usual seat at church, and 
before I left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feel- 
ing of satisfaction, tliat she had quietly breathed 
her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, 
in that world where sorrow is :iever known and 
&*ieads are never parted. 




A SUNDAY IN LONDON. 




^N a preceding paper I have spoken of an 
English Sunday in the coinitry, and ita 
tranquillizing effect upon the landscape ; 
but where is its sacred influence more strikingly 
apparent than in the very heart of that great 
Babel, London ? On this sacred day, the gigan- 
tic monster is charmed into repose. The intoler- 
able din and struggle of the week are at an end. 
The shops are shut. The fires of forges and 
manufactories are extinguislied ; and the sun, no 
longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours 
down a sober, yellow radiance into the quiet 
streets. The few pedestrians we meet, instead 
i){ hurrying forward 'vvith anxious countenances, 
move leisurely along ; their brows are smoothed 
*rom the wrinkles of business and care ; they 
aave put on their Sunday looks and Sunday man* 

• Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 



154 THE SKETCH-BJOK. 

uei's with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed 
in mind as well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells fron, 
church- to w^ers summons their several flocks to the 
fold. Forth issues from his mansion the family 
of the decent tradesman, tlie small children in the 
advance; then the citizen and his comely spouse, 
followed by the grown-up daughters, with small 
morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds of 
their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks 
after them from the window, admiring the finery 
of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and 
smile from her young mistresses, at whose toilet 
she has assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some mag- 
nate of the city, peradventure an alderman or a 
sheriff ; and now the patter of many feet an- 
nounces a procession of charity scholars, in uni- 
forms of antique cut, and each with a prayer- 
book under his arm. 

The 1 inging of bells is at an end ; the rum- 
bling of the carriage has ceased ; the pattering of 
feet is heard no more ; the flocks are folded in 
ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and 
corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant 
Oeadle keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, round 
ilie threshold of the sanctuary. For a time 
everything is hushed ; but soon is heard the deep, 
pervading sound of the organ, rolling and vibrat- 
mg through the empty lanes and courts; and the 
sweet chanting of the choir making them resound 
with melody and praise. Never have I been 
more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church- 
music than when I have heard it thus pouj-ed 



A SUNDAY I A LONDON. 155 

lortli, like a river of joy, through the inmost re- 
cesses of tliis great metropolis, elevating it, as it 
were, from all the sordid pollutions of the week ; 
and bearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide 
of triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets 
are again alive with the congregations returning 
to their homes, but soon again relapse into silence. 
Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to the 
city tradesman, is a meal of some importance. 
There is more leisure for social enjoyment at the 
board. Members of the family can now gather 
together, who are separated by the laborious occu- 
pations of the week. A school-boy may be per- 
mitted on that day to come to the paternal home ; 
an old Mend of the family takes his accustomed 
Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well- 
known stories, and rejoices young and old with 
his well-known jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its 
legions to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sun- 
shine of the parks and rural environs. Satirists 
may say what they please about the rural enjoy- 
ments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me 
there is something delightful in beholding the poor 
prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled 
thus to come forth once a week and throw himself 
upon the green bosom of nature. He is like a 
child restored to the mother's breast ; and they who 
ftrst spread out these noble parks and magnificent 
pleasure-gi'ounds which surround this huge me- 
ti'opolis, have done at least as much for its health 
and morality as if they had expended the amount 
of cost in hospitals, ])risons, and penitentiaries. 



1 56 THE lu<:e 'i ch-b o ok. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 

A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH. 




"A tavern is the rendezvous, the excnange, the staple of 
good fellows. I have heard my s'*'?''if-ffrandtather tell, how 
his 'great-great-grandfather should say, that it was an old 
proverb wiien his great-gran dt'ather was a child, that 'it was 
a good wind that blew a man to the wine.' " 

Mother Bombie. 

T is a pious custom, in some Catholic 
countries, to honor the memory of saints 
by votive lights burnt before their pict- 
ures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may 
be known by the number of these offerings. One, 
perhaps, is left to moulder in the darkness of his 
little chapel ; another may have a solitary lamp 
to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; 
while the Avhole blaze of adoration is lavished at 
the shrine of some beatified father of renown. 
The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary 
of wax ; the eager zealot his seven-branched can- 
dlestick ; and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no 
m(ians satisfied that sufficient light is thrown up- 
on the deceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp 
of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the 
eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to ob- 
scure ; and I liave occasionally seen an unlucky 
saint almost smokc^d out of countenance by the 
officiousness of his followers. 



BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, E/iSTCHEAP. 157 

III like mcanner has it ftired with the immortal 
Shakspeare. Every writer considers it his boun- 
deii duty to light up some portion of liis charac 
ter or works, and to rescue some merit from ob- 
livion. The commentator, opulent in words, pro- 
duces vast tomes of dissertations ; the common 
herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from 
their notes at the bottom of each page ; and ev- 
eiy casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight 
of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of in- 
cense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my breth- 
ren of the quill, I thought it but proper to con- 
tribute my mite of homage to the memory of the 
illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, 
sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge 
this duty. I found myself anticipated in every 
attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line 
had been explained a dozen different ways, and 
poi'plexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and 
as to fine passages, they had all been amply 
praised by previous admirers ; nay, so completely 
had the bard, of late, been overlarded with pane- 
gyric by a great German critic, that it was diffi- 
cult now to find even a fault that had not beea 
argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning 
over his })ages, when I casually opened upon the 
comic scenes of Henry IV., and was, in a mo- 
ment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of 
"he Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and nat- 
urally are these scenes of humor depicted, and 
\N'ith such force and consistency are the characters 
Histained, that they become mhigled up in the 



158 THE aKETCH-BOOK. 

mind with the facts and personages of real life. 
To few readers does it occur, that these are all 
ideal creations of a poet's brain, and tliat, in 
sober truth, no such knot of merry roisters ever 
enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my part I love to give myself up to the 
illusions of poetry. A hero of fiction that never 
existed is just as valuable to me as a hero of 
history that existed a thousand years since : and, 
if I may be excused such an insensibility to the 
common ties of human nature, I would not give 
up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient 
chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done 
for me, or men like me ? They have conquered 
countries of which I do not enjoy an acre ; or 
they have gained laurels of which I do not in- 
herit a leaf; or they have furnished examples 
of hair-brained prowess, which I have neithei 
the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. 
But, old Jack Falstaff ! — kind Jack . Falstaff ! — 
sweet Jack Falstaff! — has enlarged the bounda- 
ries of human enjoyment ; he has added vast re- 
gions of wit and good-humor, in which the poorest 
man may revel ; and has bequeathed a never- 
failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make man- 
kind merrier and better to the latest posterity. 

A. thought suddenly struck me : " I will make 
a pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the 
book, " and see if the old Boar's Head Tavern 
still exists. Who knows but I may light upon 
some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her 
quests ; at any rate, there will be a kindi-ed 
oleasure, in treading the halls once vocal with 
their mirth, to that the t(){»tM- eujoys in <ui(;l!ing 



BOARS HEAD TAVLRN, EAST (J HEAP. 159 

to the emp'y cask once filled with generous 
wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put 
in execution. I forbear to treat of the various 
adventures and wonders I encountered in ray 
travels ; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane ; 
o!' the fxded glories of Little Britain, and tlio 
{;arts adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton 
Street and old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall 
and its two stunted giants, the pride and wonder 
of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins ; 
and how I visited London Stone, and struck my 
staiF upon it, in imitation of that arch - rebel, 
Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in 
merry Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and 
wassail, where the very names of the streets 
relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears 
testimony even at the present day. For East- 
cheap, says old Stowe, " was always famous for 
its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes 
of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other 
victuals : there was clattering of pewter pots, 
harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! how sadly is 
tlie scene changed since the roaring days of Fal- 
stalf and old Stowe ! The madcap roister htis 
given place to the plodding tradesman; the clat- 
tering of pots and the sound of "harpe and saw- 
trie," to the din of carts and the accursed dingujg 
of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, save, 
haply, the strain of some siren from Billingsgate, 
chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 

I sought, in vain, for the an(;i(n»t abode <fi 
Dame Quickly. The only relic of it is a boai-'s 



160 TUK SKETCJI-BOOK. 

head, carved In relief in stone, vvliich formerlj 
served as the sign, but at present is built into the 
parting line of two houses, which stand on the 
site of the renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little abode of good 
fellowship, I was referred to a tallow-chandlei''s 
widow, opposite, who had been born and brought 
up on the spot, and was looked up to as the 
indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. I 
found her seated in a little back parlor, the win- 
dow of which looked out upon a yard about 
eight feet square, laid out as a flower-garden ; 
while a glass door opposite afforded a distant 
peep of the street, through a vista of soap and 
tallow candles : the two views, whicli comprised, 
in all probability, her prospects in life, and the 
little world in which she had lived, and moved, 
and had her being, for the better part of a cen- 
tury. 

I'o be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great 
and little, from London Stone even unto the 
Monument, was doubtless, in her opinion, to be 
acquauited with the history of the universe. 
Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity 
of ti-ue wisdom, and that liberal communicative 
disf)Osition which 1 have generally remarked in 
intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of 
their neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend fai 
back into antiquity. She could throw no light 
upon the history of the Boar's Head, from the 
time that Dame Quickly espoused the yaliant 
Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it 
•^'as unfoi'tunnlc'Iv burnt down. Tt was soon 



nCAllS J/IJAV TAVERN, EASTCUEAP. 161 

rebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old 
name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck 
with reraoi-se for double scores, bad measures, 
aTid other iniquities, which are incident to the 
sinfid race of publicans, endeavored to make his 
peace with heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to 
St. Michael's Church, Croolced Lane, towards 
the supporting of a chaphiin. For some time 
the vestry meetings were regularly held there ; 
but it was observed that the old Boar never held 
up his head under church government. He 
gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp 
about thirty years since. The tavern was then 
turned into shops ; but she informed me that a 
picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's 
Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a 
sight of this picture w^as now my determination ; 
so, having informed myself of the abode of the 
sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chron- 
icler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless 
raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, 
and furnished an important incident in the his- 
tory of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty, and much curious 
inquiry, to ferret out the humble hanger-on to 
the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane, 
aud divers little alleys, , and elbows, and dark 
passages, with which this old city is perforated, 
like an ancient cheese, or a wonn-eaten chest of 
drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of 
a small court surrounded by lofty houses, where 
the inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face 
of heaven as a community of frogs at the bot- 
tom of a well. 



162 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man; 
of a bowing, lowly habit ; yet he had a pleasant 
twinkling in his eye, and, if encouraged, would 
now and then hazard a small pleasantry ; such as 
a man of his low estate might venture to make in 
the company of high church-wardens, and other 
mighty men of the earth. I found him in com- 
pany with the deputy organist, seated apart, like 
Milton's angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high 
doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of the 
church over a friendly pot of ale, — for the lower 
classes of English seldom deliberate on any weigh- 
ty matter without the assistance of a cool tankard 
to clear their understandings. I arrived at the 
moment when they had finished their ale and their 
argument, and were about to repau* to the church 
to put it in order ; so having made known ray 
wishes, I received their gracious permission to 
accompany them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, 
standing a short distance from Billingsgate, is en- 
riched with the tombs of many fishmongers of 
renown ; and as every profession has its galaxy 
of glory, and its constellation of great men, I pre- 
sume the monument of a mighty fishmonger of 
the olden time is regarded with as much rever- 
ence by succeeding generations of the craft, as 
poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, 
or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough or 
I'urenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking 
of illustrious men, to observe that St. Michael's, 
Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes of that 
doughty cliampion, William Walworth, knight, who 



BOARS HEAD TAVERN, EAST CHEAP. 163 

10 manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat 
Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honorable 
blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record 
famous for deeds of arms : — the sovereigns of 
Cockney being generally renowned as the most 
pacific of all potentates.* 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, im' 
mediately under the back window of what was 
once the Boar's Head, stands the tombstone of 
Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. 
Tt is now nearly a century since this trusty 
drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, 
and was thus quietly deposited within call of his 
customers. As I was clearing away the weeds 
from his epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one 

* The following was the ancient inscription on the monu- 
ment of this worthy; which, unhappily, was destroy a- in the 
great contiagration. 

*' Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name; 
Fishmonger he was in lytftime here, 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere 
Who, with courage stout and manly mygh.. 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew entent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent; 
And gave him armes, as here you see, 
To declare his fact and chivalilrie. 
He left this lyff the j'ere of our God 
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd." 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by 
the venerable Stowe. " Whereas," saith he, " it hath been 
far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten 
down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy 
Ijord !Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I 
thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such 
testimony as 1 find in ancient and good records. The princi- 
pal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Ty.er, as 
the first man; the second was John, or Jack, Straw," etc.j 
stc. — Stove's Lokdon. 



164 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Bide with a mysterious air, and informed me in a 
low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark win- 
try night, when the wind was unruly, howling, 
and whistling, banging about doors and windows, 
and twirling weathercocks, so that the living were 
frightened out of their beds, and even the dead 
could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost 
of honest Preston, which happened to be airing 
itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the well- 
known call of " waiter " from the Boar's Head, 
and made its sudden appearance in the midst of 
a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was sing- 
ing a stave from the " mirre garland of Captain 
Death " ; to the discomfiture of sundry trainband 
captains, and the conversion of an infidel attorney, 
who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and 
was never known to twist the truth afterwards, 
except in the way of business. 

T beg it may be remembered, that I do not 
pledge myself for the authenticity of this anecdote 
though it is well known that the churchyards and 
by-corners of this old metropolis are very much 
infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one 
must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost and the 
apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower, 
which has frightened so many bold sentinels al- 
most out of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston 
seems to have been a worthy successor to the 
nimble-tongued Francis, who attended upon the 
revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally 
prompt with his " anon, anon, sir ; " and to have 
transcended his predecessor in honesty ; for Fal 



BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCIIKAP. 165 

BtafF, the veracity of whose taste no man will ven- 
ture to impeach, ilatly accuses Francis of putting 
lime in his sack ; whereas honest Preston's epi- 
taph lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, 
the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his 
measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the church, 
however, did not appear much captivated by the 
sober virtues of the tapster ; the deputy organist, 
who had a moist look out of the eye, made some 
shrewd remtu-k on the abstemiousness of a man 
brought up among full hogsheads ; and the little 
sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant 
wink and a dubious shake of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw 
much light on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, 
and Lord Mayoi'S, yet disappointed me in the 
great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar's 
Head Tavern. No such painting was to be 
found in the church of St. Michael. " Marry and 
amen ! " said I, " here endeth my research ! " So 
I was giving the matter up, with the air of a 
bafiied antiquary, when my friend the sexton, per- 
ceivmg me to be curious in everything relative to 

* As this inscription is rife with excellent moralit}', I tran- 
scribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no 
Joubt, the production of some choice spirit, who once fre- 
quented tiie Boar's Head. 

" Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
reader, if to justice thou 'rt inclined, 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependance, 
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance." 



166 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the old tavern, offered to show me the choice 
vessels of the vestry, which had been handed 
down from remote times, when the parish meet- 
ings were held at the Boars Head. These were 
deposited in the parish club-room, which had been 
transferred, on the decline of the ancient estaK 
lishment, to a tavern m the neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which 
stands No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of 
The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Master Ed- 
ward Honeyball, the " bully rock " of the estab- 
lishment. It is one of those little taverns which 
abound in the heart of the city, and form the cen- 
tre of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. 
We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and 
darkling ; for in these close hmes but few rays 
of reflected light are enabled to struggle down 
to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best 
but a tolerable twilight. The room was parti- 
tioned into boxes, each containing a table spread 
with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This 
showed that the guests were of the good old 
stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was 
but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the 
room was a clear coal fire, before which a breast 
of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass 
candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the 
mantel-piece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in 
one corner. There was something primitive in this 
medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall that carried me 
back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, 
indeed was humble, but everything had that look 
of order and neatness which bespeaks the super 



BOARS HEAD TAVERN, EAST CHEAP. 167 

iiiteiideiice of a notable English housewife. A 
group of amphibious-looking beings, who might 
be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling 
themselves m one of the boxes. As I was a 
visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered 
Lito a little misshapen backroom, having at least 
nine corners. It was hghted by a skylight, fur- 
nished with antiquated leathern chairs, and orna- 
mented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was 
evidently appropriated to particular customers, 
and I found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose 
and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating 
on a half-empty pot of porter. 

The old'sexton had taken the landlady aside, 
and with an air of profound importance imparted 
to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was a like- 
ly, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad sub- 
stitute for that paragon of hostesses. Dame Quick- 
ly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity 
to oblige ; and hurrying up-stairs to the archives 
of her house, where the precious vessels of the 
parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling 
and courtesy ing, with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned 
iron tobacco-box, of gigantic size, out of which, I 
was told, the vestry had smoked at their stated 
meetings, since time immemorial ; and which waa 
never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or 
used on common occasions. I received it with 
becoming reverence ; but what was my deliglit, at 
beholdhig on its cover the identical painting of 
which I was in quest ! There was displayed tht 
)utside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before 



168 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the door was to be seen the whole convh iai 
group, at table, in full revel ; pictured with thai 
wonderful fidelity and force, with which the por- 
traits of renowned generals and commodores are 
dlustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the bei.efit of 
posterity. Lest, however, there should be any 
mistake, the cunning limner had warily inscribed 
the names of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bot- 
toms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, 
nearly obliterated, recording that this box was 
the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the 
vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and 
that it was " repaired and beautified by his suc- 
cessor, INIr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a 
faithful description of this august and venerable 
relic ; and I question whether the learned Scrib- 
lerius contemplated his Roman shield, or the 
Knights of the Round Table the long-sought San- 
greal, with more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured 
gaze. Dame Ploneyball, who was highly gratified 
by the interest it excited, put in my hands a 
drinkmg-cup or goblet, which also belonged to the 
vestry, and was descended fi'om the old Boar's 
Head. It bore the inscription of having been the 
gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and was held, 
she told me, in exceeding great value, being con- 
sidered very " antyke." This last opinion was 
strengthened by the shabby gentleman in the red 
nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly sus- 
pected of being a lineal descendant from the val- 
iant Bardolph. He suddenly roused from \\\? 



80Al{-i5 BEAD TAVERN, EAST CHEAP. 169 

msditatioii on the pot of porter, and, casting a 
knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! 
the head don't ache now that made that there ar 
tide ! " 

The great importance attached to this memento 
of ancient revelry by modern church-wardens at 
first puzzled me ; but there is nothing sharpens 
tlie apprehension so much as antiquarian research ; 
for I immediately perceived that this could be 
no other than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " 
on which FalstafF made his loving but faithless 
vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of 
course, be treasured up with care among the re- 
galia of her domains, as a testimony of that sol- 
emn contract.* 

J\Iine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history 
how the goblet had been handed down from gen- 
eration to generation. She also entertained me 
with many particulars concerning the worthy 
vestrymen who have seated themselves thus 
quietly on the stools of the ancient roisters of 
Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter 
clouds of smoke in honor of Shakspeare. These 
I forbear to rehite, lest my readers should not be 
as curious hi these matters as myself Suffice it 
to say, the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, 
believe that Falstaif and his merry crew actually 



* "Thou didst swear to me upon a. parcel-gilt goblet, sitting 
ni my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal iire, 
^n Wednesday, in Whitsunweek, when the prince broke thy 
lead for likening his father to a singing man at Windsor; 
thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to 
luarry me, and make me my ladv, thv wife. Canst thou deny 
t ? " — Henry I V. Part 2. 



170 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several 
legendary anecdotes concerning hun still extant 
among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's 
•Arms, which they give as transmitted down from 
their forefathers ; and Mr. M'Kash, an Iiish hair- 
dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old 
Boar's Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, 
not laid down in the books, with which he makes 
his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make 
dome further inquiries, but I found him sunk in 
pensive meditation. His head had declined a 
little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from the 
very bottom of his stomach ; and, though I could 
not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture 
was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. 
I followed the direction of his eye through the 
door which stood open, and found it fixed wist- 
fully on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in 
dripping richness before the fire. 

I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of 
my recondite investigation, I was keeping the 
pool man from his dinner. My bowels yearned 
with sympathy, and, putting in his hand a small 
token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, 
with a hearty benediction on him. Dame Honey- 
ball, and the Parish Club of Crooked Lane ; — 
not forgetting my shabby but sententious friend, 
ui the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a " tedious brief" account of 
this interesting research, for which, if it prove 
too short and unsatisfactory, I can only plead my 
inexperience in this branch of literature, so de 



BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EAST CUE AJ*. IH 

servedlj popular at the present day. I am aware 
that a more skilfid illustrator of the immortal 
bard would have swelled tlie materials I have 
touched upou to a good merchantable bulk ; com- 
prising the biographies of William Walworth, 
Jack Straw, and Robert Preston ; some notice of 
the eminent fishmongers of St. Michael's ; the his- 
tory of Eastcheap, great and little ; private anec- 
dotes of Dame Honeyball, and her pretty daugh- 
ter, whom I have not even mentioned ; to say 
nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb, 
(and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a 
comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle ;) — the 
whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and 
illuminated by the great fire of London. 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked 
by future commentators ; nor do I despau' of see- 
ing the tobacco-box, and the " parcel-gilt goblet," 
which I have thus brought to light, the subjects of 
future engravings, and almost as fruitful of vclu- 
minous dissertations and disputes as the shield of 
Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase. 




1 72 THE SKETCH-B OK 




THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

• 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite whicli are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

DkUMMOND of HAWTHORStDEN. 

'HERE are certain half-dreaming moods 
of mind, in which we naturally steal 
away from noise and glare, and seek some 
quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries 
and build our air-castles undisturbed. In such a 
mood I was loitering about the old gray cloisters 
of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of 
wandering thought which one is apt to dignify 
with the name of reflection ; when suddenly an 
interruption of madcap boys from TVestminster 
School, playing at football, broke in upon the mo^ 
nastic stillness of tlie place, making the vaulted 
passages and mouldering tombs echo with their 
merriment. I sought to take refuge from their 
noise by penetrating still deeper into the solitudes 
of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for 
admission to the library. He conducted tne 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 173 

tliroiigh a portal ricli with the crumbling sculpture 
of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy pas- 
sage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber 
in which doomsday-book is deposited. Just with- 
in the passage is a small door on the left. To 
this the verger applied a key; it was double 
locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if sel- 
dom used. We now ascended a dark narrow 
staircase, and, passing through a second door, en- 
tered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof 
supported by massive joists of old English oak 
It was soberly lighted by a row of Gothic win- 
dows at a considerable height from the floor, and 
which apparently opened upon the roofs of the 
cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend 
dignitary of the church in his robes hung over 
the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small 
gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken 
cases. They consisted principally of old polemical 
writers, and were much more worn by time than 
use. In the centre of the library was a solitary 
table with two or three books on it, an inkstand 
without ink, and a few pens parched by long dis- 
use. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and 
profound meditation. It was buried deep among 
the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from 
the tumult of the world. I could only hear now 
and then the shouts of the school-boys faintly 
swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a bell 
tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs 
of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merri- 
jnent grew fainter and fainter, and at length died 



174 THE bKETCn-BOOK. 

away ; the bell ceased to toll, and a profound si 
lence reigned through the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously 
bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated 
myself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. 
Instead of reading, however, I was beguiled by the 
solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, 
into a train of musing. As I looked around upon 
the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus 
ranged on the shelves, and apparently never dis- 
turbed in their repose, I could not but consider the 
library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, 
like mummies, are piously entombed, and left to 
blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these vol- 
umes, now thrust aside with such indifference, cost 
some aching head ! how many weary days ! how 
many sleepless nights ! How have their authors 
buried themselves in the solitude of cells and clois- 
ters ; shut themselves up from the face of man, 
and the still more blessed face of nature ; and de- 
voted themselves to painful research and intense 
reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch 
of dusty shelf, — to have the title of their works 
read now and then in a future age, by some drow- 
sy churchman or casual straggler like myself; and 
in another age to be lost, even to remembrance. 
Sucli is the amount of this boasted immortality. 
A mere temporary rumor, a local sor.nd ; like the 
tone of that bell which has just tolled among these 
towers, fillinnj the ear for a moment — linp^erino 
transiently in echo — - and then passing away like 
a thing that was not ! 



THE MUTABILJTy OF LITKRATURE. 175 

While I sat half murmnring, half meditating 
these unprofitable speculations, with my head rest- 
ing on my hand, I was thrumming with the other 
hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosen- 
ed the clasps ; Avhen, to my utter astonishment, 
the little book gave two or three yawns, like one 
awaking from a deep sleep ; then a husky hem ; 
and at length began to talk. At first its voice 
was very hoarse and broken, being much troubled 
by a cobweb which some studious spider had 
woven across it ; and having pi'obably contracted 
a cold from long exposure to the chills and damps 
of the abbey. In a short time, however, it be- 
came more distinct, and I soon found it an ex- 
ceedingly fluent, conversable little tome. Its lan- 
guage, to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, 
and its pronunciation, what, in the present day, 
would be deemed barbarous ; but I shall endeav- 
or, as far as I am able, to render it in modern 
parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the 
world — about merit beino; suffered to lano;uish in 
obscurity, and other such commonplace topics of 
literary repining, and complained bitterly that it 
had not been opened for more than two centuries. 
That the dean only looked now and then into the 
library, sometimes took down a volume or two, 
trifled with them for a few moments, and then re- 
turned them to their shelves. " What a plague 
do they mean," said the little quarto, which I be- 
gan to perceive was somewdiat choleric, " what a 
plague do they mean by keeping several thousand 
volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a set 



176 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, 
merely to be looked at now and then by the dean ? 
Books were written to give pleasure and to be en- 
joyed ; and I would have a rule passed that the 
dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a 
year ; or, if he is not equal to the task, let them 
once in a while turn loose the whole School of 
Westminster among us, that at any rate we may 
now and then have an airing." 

" Softly, my worthy friend," replied I ; " you are 
not aware how much better you are oft* than mo3t 
books of your generation. By being stored away 
in this ancient library, you are like the treasured 
remains of those saints and monarchs which lie 
enshrined in the adjoining chapels ; while the re- 
mains of your contemporary mortals, left to the or- 
dinary course of nature, have long since returned 
to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves 
and looking big, " I was written for all the world, 
not for the bookworms of an abbey. I was in- 
tended to circulate from hand to hand, like other 
great contemporary works ; but here have I been 
clasped up for more than two centuries, and 
might have silently fallen a prey to these worms 
that are playing the very vengeance with my in- 
testines, if you had not by chance given me an 
opportunity of uttering a few last words before I 
go to pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been 
left to the circulation of which you speak, you 
would long ere this have been no more. To 
judge from your physiognomy, you are now weU 



TflK MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 177 

Stricken in years : very few of your contempo- 
raries can be at present in existence ; and those 
few owe their longevity to being imnun-ed liky 
yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, 
instead of likening to harems, you might more 
properly and gratefully have compared to those 
iniirmaries attached to religious establishments, 
for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, 
by quiet fostering and no employment, they often 
endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. 
You talk of your contemporaries as if in circula- 
tion, — where do we meet with their works ? 
What do we hear of Robert Groteste, of Lincoln : 
No one could have toiled harder than he for im- 
mortality. He is said to have written nearly 
two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a 
pyramid of books to perpetuate his name ; but, 
alas ! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only 
a few fragments are scattered in various libraries, 
where they are scarcely disturbed even by the 
antiquarian. Wliat do we hear of Giraldus 
Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, 
theologian, and poet? He declined two bishop- 
rics, that he might shut himself up and write 
for posterity : but posterity never inquires after 
his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, 
who, besides a learned history of England, wrote 
a treatise on the contempt of the world, which 
the world has revenged by forgetting him ? 
What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the 
miracle of his age in classical composition ? Of 
his three great heroic poems one is lost forever, 
excepting a mere fragment ; the others are known 
12 



178 THE RKKTCn-BOOK 

only to a few of the curious in literature ; aL;d 
as to his love -verses and epigrams, they liave 
entirely disappeared. What is in current use of 
John AYallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the 
name of the tree of life ? Of William of 
JMalmsbury ; — of Simeon of Durham ; — of Ben- 
edict of Peterborough ; — of John Hanvill of St. 
Albans; — of " 

" Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy 
tone, " hoAV old do you think me ? You are talk- 
ing of authors that lived long before my time, 
and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they 
in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved 
to be forgotten ; * but I, sir, was ushered into the 
world from the press of the renowned Wynkyn 
de Worde. I was written in my own native 
tongue, at a time when the language had become 
fixed ; ;uid indeed I was considered a model of 
pure and elegant English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were 
couched in sucli intolerably antiquated terms, 
that I liave had infinite difficulty in rendering 
them into modern phraseology.) 

" I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking 
your age ; but it matters little : almost all the 
writers of your time have likewise passed into 
forgetfulness ; and De Woi'de's publications are 
niei'e literary rarities among book-collectors. The 

* In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes hart great 
delyte to endite, and have many" noble thinges fullilde, but 
certes there ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of 
which speche the Frenclinien have as good a f;\ntasye as we 
have in hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe. — Chaucer'g Tts 
lament of Love. 



rni-: mutability of literature. 179 

purity and stability of language, too, on which 
you found your claims to perpetuity, have been 
the fallacious dependence of authors of every 
iigo, even back to the times of the worthy Robert 
of Gloucester, who wrote liis history in rliymes 
of mongrel Saxon.* Even now many talk of 
Spenser's ' Well of pure English undefiled ' as 
if the language ever sprang from a well or foun- 
tain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence 
of various tongues, perpetually subject to changes 
and intermixtures. It is this which has made 
English literature so extremely mutable, and the 
reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless 
thought can be committed to something more per- 
manent and unchangeable than such a medi- 
um, even thought must share the fate of every- 
thing else, and fall into decay. This should 
serve as a check upon the vauity and exultation 
of the most popular writer. He finds the lan- 
guage in which he has embarked his fame grad- 
ually altering^ and subject to the dilapidations of 
time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back 
and beholds the early authors of his country, once 
the favorites of their day, supplanted by modern 
writers. A faw short ages have covered them 
with obscurity, and their merits can only be rel- 

* Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterwards, also, 
bj' delij^ent travail of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in 
tlie time of Richard the Second, and after them of John Sco- 
gan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was 
brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it nevei 
came ilnto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Eliza 
beth, wherein So\\\\ Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and 
sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished 
the ornature of the same, to '..heir great praise and immortal 
.commendation." 



180 THE &KETC11-B00K. 

ished by the quaint taste of the bookworm 
And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of liia 
own work, which, however it may be admired ir 
its day, and held up as a model of purity, will in 
•/he course of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; 
'antil it shall become almost as unintelligible in 
Its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one 
of those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the 
deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with 
some emotion, " when I contemplate a modern 
library, filled with new works, in all the bravery 
of rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit 
down and weep ; hke the good Xerxes, when he 
surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splen- 
dor of military array, and reflected that in one 
Imndred years not one of them would be in 
existence ! " 

"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy 
sigh, " I see how it is ; these modern scribblers 
have superseded all the good old authors. I 
suppose nothing is read nowadays but Sir Philip 
Sydney's ' Arcadia,' Sackville's stately plays, and 
'Mirror for Magistrates,' or the fine-spun euphu- 
isms of the ' unparalleled John Lyly.' " 

" There you are again mistaken," said I ; " the 
writers whom you suppose in vogue, because 
they happened to be so when you were last in 
circulation, have long since had their day. Sir 
Philip Sydney's ' Arcadia,' the immortality of 
which was so fondly predicted by his admirers,* 

* Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his gentle 
•witt, and the golden-pillar of his noble courage; and ever 
ootily unto the world that thy writer was the secretary of elo- 
quoucc, the breath of the muses, the honey-bee of the dainty- 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 181 

and which, iii truth, is full of noble thoughts 
delicate images, and graceful turns of language 
is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has 
strutted into obscurity ; and even Lyly, though 
his writings were once the delight of a court, 
and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now 
scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd 
of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, 
have likewise gone down, with all their writings 
and their controversies. Wave after wave of 
succeeding literature has rolled over them, mitil 
they are buried so deep, that it is only now 
and then that some industrious diver after frag- 
ments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the 
gratification of the curious. 

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this 
mutability of language a wise precaution of Provi- 
dence for the benefit of the world at large, and of 
authors in particular. To reason from analogy, 
we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of 
vegetables springing up, nourishing, adorning the 
fields ibr a short tune, and then fading into dust, 
to make way for theu' successors. Were not this 
the case, the fecundity of nature would be a griev- 
ance instead of a blessing. The earth would 
groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and ita 
surface become a tangled wilderness. In like 
manner the works of genius and learning decline, 
9,nd make way for subsequent productions. Lan- 
guage gradually varies, and with it fade away the 

vit flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual 
virtues, the arme of Bellomi in the field, the tonge of Suf.i» 
lu the chamber, the sprite of Practise in esse, and the p&J'Vijt^ 
'jf excellency in print. — llarccij Pitrct's Suptreivf/aUon 



182 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

writings of authors who have flourished their 
allotted time ; otherwise, the creative powers of 
genius would overstock the world, and the mind 
would be completely bewildered in the endless 
mazes of Hterature. Formerly there were some 
restraints on this excessive multiplication. Works 
had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow 
and laborious operation ; they were written either 
on parchment, which was expensive, so that om; 
work was often erased to make way for another ; 
or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely 
perishable. Authorship was a limited and un- 
profitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the 
leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accu- 
mulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and 
confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these 
cu^curastances it may, in some measure, be owing 
that we have not been inundated by the intellect 
of antiquity ; that the fountains of thought have 
not been broken up, and modern genius drowned 
in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and 
the press have put an end to all these restraints. 
They have made every one a writer, and enabled 
every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse 
itself over the whole intellectual world. The 
consequences are alarming. The stream of liter- 
ature has swollen into a torrent — • augmented into 
a river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries 
since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted 
a great libraiy ; but what would you say to libra- 
ries such as actually exist containing three or four 
hundred thousand volumes ; legions of authors at 
the game time busy ; and the press going on with 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 183 

activity, to double and quadruple the iiuuibert 
Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out 
among the progeny of the muse, now that siie has 
become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear 
the mere fluctuation of language will not be suf- 
ficient. Ci'iticisni may do much. It increases 
with the increase of literature, and resembles one 
of those salutary checks on population spoken of 
by economists. All possible encouragement, there- 
fore, should be given to the growth of critics, 
good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; let 
criticism do what it may, writers will write, print- 
ers will print, and the world will inevitably be 
overstocked with good books. It will soon be 
the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their 
names. Many a man of passable information, at 
the present day, reads scarcely anything but re- 
views ; and before long a man of erudition will 
be little better than a mere walking catalogue." 

" My very good sir," said the little quarto, 
yawning most drearily in my face, " excuse my 
interrupting you, but I perceive you are rather 
given to prose. I would ask the fate of an au- 
thor who was making some noise just as I left 
the world. His reputation, however, was consid- 
ered quite temporary. The learned shook their 
heads at hiin, for he was a poor half-educated 
varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of 
Greek, and had been obliged to run the country 
for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shaks- 
peare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 

" On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that 
very man that the literature of his period has ex- 



184 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

perieiiced a duration beyond the ordinary teim of 
English literature. There rise authors now and 
then, who seem proof against the mutability of 
language, because they have rooted themselves 
in the unchanging principles of human nature. 
I'hey are like gigantic trees that we sometimes 
see on the banks of a stream ; which, by their 
vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere 
surflice, and laying hold on the very foundations 
of the earth, preserve the soil around them from 
being swept away by the ever-flowing current, 
and hold up many a neighboring plant, and, per- 
haps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the 
case with Shakspeare, whom we behold defying 
the encroachments of time, retaining in modern 
use the language and literature of his day, and 
giving duration to many an indifferent author, 
merely from having flourished in his vicinity. 
But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assum- 
ing the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun 
by a profusion of commentators, who, like clam- 
bering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble 
plant that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides 
and chuckle, until at length he broke out in a ple- 
thoric fit of laughter that had wellnigh choked 
him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. 
*' Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon as he could re- 
cover breath, " mighty well ! and so you would 
persuade me that the literature of an age is to be 
perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a 
man without learning ; by a poet, forsooth — a 
poet ! " And here he wheezed forth another fit 
of lauehter. 



THE MUTABfLlTY OF LITERATURE. 185 

I confess that I felt somewliat nestled at this 
rudeness, which, however, I pardoned on account 
of his having flourished in a less polished age. 1 
determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point, 

" Yes," resumed I, positively, *' a poet ; for of 
nil writers he has the best chance for immortality. 
Others may write from the head, but he writes 
ti-om the heart, and the heart will always under- 
stand him. lie is the faithful portrayer of nature, 
whose features are always the same, and always 
hiteresting. Prose - writers are voluminous and 
unwieldy ; their pages are crowded with common- 
places, and their thoughts expanded into tedious- 
ness. But with the true poet everything is terse, 
touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest 
thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates 
them by eveiything that he sees most striking in 
nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of 
human life, such as it is passing before him. His 
writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, 
if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he 
lives. They are caskets which enclose within a 
small compass the wealth of the language, — its 
family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a 
portable form to posterity. The setting may oc- 
casionally be antiquated, and require now and 
tl;en to be renewed, as in the case of Chancer ; 
but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems 
continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the 
long reach of literary history. What vast valleys 
of dulncss, filled with monkish legends and aca- 
demical controversies ! what bogs of theological 
speculations ! what dreary wastes of metaphysics 



186 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Here and there only do we behold the heavec- 
illuminated bards, elevated like beacons on theii 
widely separate heights, to transmit the pure light 
of poetical intelligence from age to age." * 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums 
upon the poets of the day, when the sudden open- 
ing of the door caused me to turn my head.* It 
was the verger, who came to inform me that it 
was time to close the library. I sought to have 
a parting word with the quarto, but the worthy 
little tome was silent ; the clasps were closed ; 
and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had 
passed. I have been to the library two or three 
times since, and have endeavored to draw it into 
further conversation, but in vain ; and whether all 
this rambling colloquy actually took place, or 
whether it was another of those odd day-dreama 
to which I am subject, I have never to this mo- 
ment been able to discover. 

* Thorow earth and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe: 
And featly nyps the world es abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the goklen leves 

That drop from poet's head ! 
Whicli doth surmount our cominon tiiZke 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

Chuujhyard 



KVRAL FUNERALS, 187 



RURAL FUNERALS. 




Here's a kw flowers! but about midnight more: 
The herbs that have on them cokl dew o' the night 

Are strewings fitt'st tor graves 

You were as flowers now wither'd; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon yoa strow. 

Cymbeline. 

I^MONG the beautiful and simple-hearted 
customs of rural life which still linger 
in some parts of England, are those of 
strewing flowers before the funerals, and planting 
them at the graves of departed friends. These, 
it is said, are the remains of some of the rites of 
the primitive church ; but they are of still higher 
antiquity, having been observed among the Greeks 
and Romans, and frequently mentioned by their 
writers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous trib- 
utes of unlettered affection, originating long be- 
fore art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into 
song, or story it wi the monument. They are now 
only to be met with in the most distant and retired 
places of the kingdom, where fashion and innova- 
don have not been able to throng in, and trample 
Dut all the ciu'ious and interesting traces of the 
olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed where- 
on the corpse lies is covered with flowers, a cus- 



188 TFIE SKETCH-BOOK. 

torn alluded to in one of the wild and pbdntive 
ditties of Ophelia. 

White his shroud as the mountain suow 

Larded all with sweet flowers; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautifid rite 
observed in some of the remote villages of the 
south, at the funeral of a female who has died 
young and unmarried. A chaplet of v/hite flowers 
is borne before the corpse by a young girl near- 
est in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards 
hung up in the church over the accustomed seat 
of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes 
made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and 
inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. 
They are intended as emblems of the purity of 
the deceased, and the crown of glorj" which she 
has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead 

are carried to the grave with the singing of 

psalms and hymns : a kind of triumph, " to show," 

says Bourne, " that they have finished their course 

with joy, and are become conquerors." Tliis, I 

ara informed, is observed in some of the ?>orthern 

counties, particularly in Northumberland ; and it 

has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear 

ot a still evening, in some lonely country scene 

the mournfid melody of a funeral dirge sw^illinc 

from a distance, and to see the train slowly diov 

Ido; along the landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted frround, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The datrodill 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of out love, thv stone. — IIerkick. 



RURAL FUNERALS. 18S 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the 
traveller to the passing funeral in these seques- 
tered places ; for such spectacles, occurring among 
the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the 
soul. As the mourning train approaches, he 
pauses, uncovered, to let it go by ; he then fol- 
lows silently in the rear ; sometimes quite to the 
grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, 
and, having paid this tribute of respect to the 
deceased, turns and resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs 
through the English character, and gives it some 
of its most touching and ennobling graces, is 
finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in 
the solicitude shoAvn by the common people for 
an honored and a peaceful grave. Tlie humblest 
peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while liv- 
ing, is anxious that some little respect may be 
paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, de- 
scribing the " faire and happy milkmaid," observes, 
*' thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may 
die in the spring-time, to have store of flower? 
stucke upon her winding-sheet." The poets, too, 
who always breathe the feeling of a nation, con- 
tinually advert to this ifond solicitude about the 
grave. In " The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont 
and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the 
kind, describhig the capricious melanchol^f of a 
broken-hearted girl. 

When she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a si^h, will tell 
Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in; and make her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. , 



190 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Tlie custom of decorating gi'aves was once u« j 
versallj prevalent : osiers were carefully bent 
over them to keep the turf uninjured, and about 
them were planted evergreens and flowers. " Wo 
adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his " Sylva," 
'' with flowers and redolent plants, just emblema 
of the life of man, which has been compared iu 
Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties whose 
roots being buried in dishonor, rise again in glo- 
ry." This usage has now become extremely rare 
in England ; but it may still be met with in the 
churchyards of retired villages, among the Welsh 
mountains ; and I recollect an instance of it at 
the small town of Ruthen, which lies at the head 
of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told 
also by a friend, who was present at the funeral of 
a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female 
attendants had their aprons full of flowers, which, 
as soon as the body was interred, they stuck about 
the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been dec- 
orated in the same manner. As the flowers had 
been merely stuck in the ground, and not plant- 
ed, they had soon withered, and might be seen 
in various states of decay^ some drooping, others 
quite perished. They were afterwards to be sup- 
planted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens , 
which on some graves had grown to great luxuri- 
ance, and overshadowed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness 
In tlie arrangement of these rustic offerings, that 
liad something in it truly poetical. The rose w^as 
Bometimes blended with the lily, to form a geMcral 



RL'liAL FUNERALS. 19 J 

emblem of frail mortality. " This sweet flower," 
said ICvelyn, '' borne on a branch set with thorns, 
and accomjianied with the lily, are natural hiero 
glyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and 
transitory life, which, making so fair a show for a 
time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." 
The nature and color of the flowers, and of the 
ribbons with which they were tied, had often a 
particular reference to the qualities or story of 
the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings 
of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled " Cory- 
don's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decora- 
tions he intends to use : — 

A garland shall be framed 

By art and nature's skill, 
Of sundr\'-colored flowers, 

In token of good-will. 

And sundrv-Golor'd ribands 

On it I will bestow; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

I '11 deck her tomb with flowers, 

The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears, as showers, 

I '11 keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted af 
the gi'ave of a virgin ; her chaplet was tied with 
white ribbons, in token of her spotless innocence ; 
though sometimes black ribbons were intermingled, 
'o bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose 
was occasionally used in remembrance of such as 
had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses 
in general were appropriated to the graves of lov- 
ers Evelj^n tells us that the custom was nol 



192 TUE SKETCH- BOOK. 

altogellier extinct iii his time, near his dwelling 
in the county of Surrey, " where the maidens 
yearly planted and decked the graves of their 
defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." And Cam- 
den likewise remarks, in his " Britannia " : " Here 
is also a certain custom, observed time out of 
mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, es- 
pecially by the young men and maids who have 
lost their loves ; so that this churchyard is now 
full of them." 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their 
loves, emblems of a more gloomy character were 
used, such as the yew and cypress ; and if flow- 
ers were strewn, they were of the most melan- 
choly colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stan- 
ley, Esq. (published in IGol), is the following 
stanza. 

Yet strew 
Upon my d ism all gra\-e 
Such otl'erings as j'ou have, 

Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; 
For kinder dowers cun take no uirth 
Or growth from such unhappy eaith. 

In "The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little 
air is introduced, illustrative of this mode of dec- 
orating the funerals of females who had beers dia- 
Bpp;>inted in love. 

Lay a garland on my hearse, 

Of the disniall yew, 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 

Sav I died true. 



M^, 



love was false, but I was fiim, 



Upon ni}' buried body lie 
Lightly, gentle earth. 



RURAL FUNERALS. V3i 

Tlie natural effect of sorrow over the dead is 
to refine and elevate the mind ; and we have a 
proof of it in the purity of sentiment and the 
unaffected elegance of thought which pervaded 
the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, 
it was an especial precaution that none but sweet- 
scented evergreens and flowers should be em- 
ployed. The intention seems to have been to 
soften the liorrors of the tomD, to beguile the mind 
from brooding over the disgraces of perishing 
mortality, and to associate the memory of the de- 
ceased with the most delicate and beautiful ob- 
jects in nature. There is a dismal process going 
on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred 
dust, which the imagination shrinks from contem- 
plating ; and we seek still to think of the form 
we have loved, with thoie refined associations 
which it awakened when blooming before us in 
youth and beauty. " Lay her i' the earth," says 
Laertes, of his virgin sister, 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring ! 

Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours 
forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought and im- 
age, which in a manner embalms the dead in the 
recollections of the livmg. 

bleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

Aud make this place all Paradise: 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
liBt balme and cassia sent their scent 
From out thv maiden monument. 



May all siiie maids at wonted hours 
Come forth to strew tiiy tonibe Avith flowers I 
1.] 



194 TflE SKETCfT'BOOK. 

May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense bum 
Upon thine altar! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thine um. 

1 might crowd my pages with extracts fiyia 
tlie older British poets who wrote when these lites 
were more prevalent, and delighted frequently to 
allude to them ; but I have already quoted more 
than is necessary. I cannot however refrain 
fi'om giving a passage from Shakspeare, even 
though it should appear trite , which illustrates 
the emblematical meaning often conveyed in these 
floral tributes, and at the same time possesses that 
magic of language and appositeness of imagery for 
which he stands preeminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I '11 sweeten th}'- sad grive; thoii shalt not lack 
The flower that "s like thy face, pale primrose; nor 
The azured harebell, like"^thy veins; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, 
Outsweeten'd not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in 
these prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature 
than in the most costly monuments of art, the 
hand strews the flower while the heart is warm, 
and the tear ftiUs on the grave as affection is 
binding the osier round the sod ; but pathos ex- 
pires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is 
chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured 
marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so 
truly elegant and touching has disappeared from 
general use, and exists only in the most remote 
ftn«l insignificant villages. But it seems as if 



RURAL FUNERALS. 195 

poetical custom always slums the walks of culti- 
V'lited society. In proportion as people grow polite, 
they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry 
but they have learnt to check its free impulses, 
to distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its 
most affecting and picturesque usages, by studied 
l.orm and pompous ceremonial. Few pageants 
can be more stately and frigid tlian an P^nglish 
funeral in town. It is made up of show and 
gloomy parade ; mourning carriages, niourning 
horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, 
who make a mockery of grief " There is a grave 
digged," says Jeremy Taylor, "and a solemn 
mourning, and a great talk in the neighborhood, 
and when the daies are finished, they shall be, 
and they shall be remembered no more." The 
associate in the gay and crowded city is soon for- 
gotten ; the hurrying succession of new intimates 
and new pleasures effaces him from our muids, 
and the very scenes and circles in which he moved 
are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the 
country are solemnly impressive. The stroke of 
death makes a wider space in the village circle, 
and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of 
rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every 
ear ; it steals with its pervading melancholy over 
hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the 
sountry also perpetuate the memory of the friend 
with whom we once enjoyed them ; who was the 
2orapanion of our most retired walks, and gave 
\nimation to every lonely scene. His idea is 
issociated with every charm of natiu-e ; we heai 



196 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

his voice in the echo which he once delighted tc 
awaken ,• his spirit haunts the grove which he 
once frequented ; we think of him in the wild 
upland solitude, or amidst the pensive beauty of 
the valley. Li the freshness of joyous morning, 
we remember his beaming smiles and bounding 
gayety ; and when sober evening returns with 
its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we 
call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk 
and sweet-souled melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

For him the tear be duh' shed; 
Beloved, till life can charm no more; 

And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory 
of the deceased in the country is that the grave 
is more immediately in sight of the survivors. 
They pass it on their way to prayer; it meets 
their eyes when their hearts are softened by the 
exercises of devotion ; they linger about it on 
the Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from 
worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside 
from present pleasures and present loves, and to 
sit down among the solemn mementos of the past. 
In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray 
over the graves of their deceased friends, for 
several Sundays after the interment; and wliere 
the tender rite of strewing and planting flowei-s 
is still practised, it is always renewed on Easter, 
Whitsimtide, and other festivals, when the season 
brings the companion of former festivity more 
vividly to mind. It is also invariably performed 
by tlie nearest relatives and friends ; no menials 



RURAL FUNERALS. 197 

Qor hirelings are employed ; and if a neighboi 
yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult 
to offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, 
because, as it is one of the last, so is it one of 
tlie holiest offices of love. The grave is the 
ordeal of true affection. It is there that tlie 
divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority 
to the instinctive impulse of mere animal attach- 
ment. The latter must be continually refreshed 
and kept alive by the presence of its object ; but 
the love that is seated in the soul can live on 
long remembrance. The mere inclinations of 
sense languish and decline with the charms 
which excited them, and turn with shuddering 
disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb ; 
but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises, 
purified from rvery sensual desire, and returns, 
like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the 
heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow 
from which we refuse to be divorced. Every 
other wound we seek to heal — every other afflic- 
tion to forget ; but this wound we consider it a 
duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and 
brood over in solitude. Where is the mother 
who would willingly forget the infant that per 
ished like a blossom from her arms, though every 
-ecoUection is a pang? Where is the child thai 
would willingly forget the most tender of par- 
ents, though to remember be but to lament! 
Wlio, even in the hour of agony, would foi'get 
'he friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even 



I9S THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

when the tomb is dosuig upon the remains of 
her he most loved, when he feels his heart, a« 
it were, crushed in the closing of its portal, 
would accept of consolation that must be bought 
by forgetfulness ? No, the love which survives 
the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the 
soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its de- 
lights ; and when the overwhelming burst of 
grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollec- 
tion, when the sudden anguish and the convul- 
sive agony over the present ruins of all that we 
most loved is softened away into pensive medita- 
tion on all that it was in the days of its loveli- 
ness, — who would root out such a sorrow from 
the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a 
passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or 
spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, 
yet who would exchange it even for the song of 
pleasure, or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a 
voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There 
is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn 
even from the charms of the living. Oh, the 
grave ! — the grave ! — It buries every error — 
covers every defect — extinguishes every resent- 
ment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but 
fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can 
look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and 
aot feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever 
have warred with the poor handful of earth that 
iies mouldering before him. 

But the grave of those we loved — what a 
place for meditation! There it is that we call 
up in long review the whole history of virtue 



RURAL FUNERALS. 199 

and gentleness, and the thousand enaearmenta 
lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily 
intercourse of intimacy, — there it is that we 
dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful ten- 
derness, of the parting scene. The bed of death, 
with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendanc<' 

— its mute, watchful iissiduities. Tlie last testi 
monies of expiring love ! The feeble, fluttering, 
thrilling — oh ! how thrilling ! — pressure of the 
hand ! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in 
death to give one more assurance of affectioh ! 
The last fond look of the glazing eye, turned 
upon us even from the threshold of existence ! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and medi- 
tate ! There settle the account with thy con- 
science for every past benefit unrequited — every 
past endearment unregarded, of that departed 
being who can - never — never — never return to 
be soothed by thy contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a 
sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered 
brow of an affectionate parent, — if thou art a 
husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom 
that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to 
doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth, 

— if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in 
tliought, or word, or deed, the spirit that gener- 
ously confided in thee, — if thou art a lover, and 
hast ever given one unmerited pang to that tiue 
heai't which now lies cold and still beneath thy 
feet, — then be sure that every unkind look 
^very ungracious word, every ungentle action 
will come thronging back upon thy memory, and 



200 TEE SKETCH-BO. K. 

knocking dolefully at thy soul> — then be sure 
that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant 
on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and 
pour the unavailing tear ; more deep, more bitter, 
because unheard and unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew 
the beauties of nature about the grave ; ccnsole 
thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender 
yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by 
the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over 
the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and af- 
fectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the 
livmg. 



In writing the preceding article, it was not in- 
tended to give a full detail of the funeral customs 
of the English peasantry, but merely to furnish a 
few hints and quotations illustrative of particular 
rites, to be appended, by way of note, to another 
paper, which has been withheld. The article 
swelled insensibly into its present form, and this 
is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual 
a notice of these usages, after they have been am- 
ply and learnedly investigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that 
this custom of adorning graves with flowers pre- 
vails in other countries besides England. Indeed, 
in some it is much more general, and is observed 
even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then 
apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate intc 
affectation. Bright, in his Travels in Lower Hun- 
garyi tells of monuments of marble, and recesses 



RURAL J'UNERALS. 201 

formed for retirement, with seats placed among 
Dowers of greenhouse plants ; and that the graves 
generally are covered with the gayest flowers of 
the season. He gives a casual picture of filial 
piety, which I cannot but transcribe; for I trust 
it is as useful as it is delightful to illustrate the 
amiable virtues of the sex. " When I was at 
i>erlin," says he, "I followed the celebrated 
Ifttand to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, 
you might trace much real feeling. In the midst 
of the ceremony, my attention was attracted by a 
young woman, who stood on a mound of earth, 
newly covered with turf, which she anxiously pro- 
tected from the feet of the passing crowd. It 
was the tomb of her parent ; and the figure of 
this affectionate daughter presented a monument 
more striking than the most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral dec- 
oration that I once met with among the moun- 
tains of Switzerland. It was at the village of 
Gersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake 
of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was 
once the capital of a miniature republic, shut up 
between the Alps and the Lake, and accessible 
on the land-side only by footpaths. The whole 
force of the republic did not exceed six hundred 
fi£:htin2;-men ; and a few miles of circumference, 
scooped out as it were from the bosom of the 
mountains, comprised its territory. The village 
of Gersau seemed separated from the rest of the 
world, and retained the golden simplicity of a 
purer age. It had a small church, with a bury- 
■ng-ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves 



202 THE SKKTCn-BOOR 

were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some 
were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but 
evidently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. 
On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, 
some withering, others fresh, as if occasionally re- 
newed. I paused with interest at this scene ; I 
ielt that I was at the source of poetical descrip- 
tion, for these, were the beautiful but unaffected 
offeringb of the heart which poets are fain to 
record. In a gayer and more populous place, I 
should have suspected them to have been sug- 
gested by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; 
but the good people of Gersau knew little of 
books , there was not a novel nor a love-poem in 
the village ; and I question whether any peasant 
of the place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh 
ohaplet for the grave of his mistress, that he was 
fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poeti- 
cal devotion, and that he was practically a poet. 




THE INN KITCHEN. SJPS 



THE INN KITCHEN. 




Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? 

Falstaff 

lURING a journey that I once made 
through the Netherlands, I had arrived 
one evening at the Pomme dtOr, the prin- 
cipal iim of a small Flemish village. It was 
after the hour of the table d'hote, so that I was 
obliged to make a solitary supper from the relics 
of its ampler board. The weather was chilly ; I 
was seated alone in one end of a great gloomy 
dining-room, and, my repast being over, I had the 
prospect before me of a long dull evening, without 
any visible means of enhvening it. I summoned 
mine host, and requested something to read ; he 
brought me the whole literary stock of his house- 
hold, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the 
same language, and a number of old Paris news- 
papers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, 
readmg old and stale criticisms, my ear was now 
and then struck with bursts of laughter which 
seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one 
that has travelled on the continent must know how 
favorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to 
the middle and inferior order of travellers ; par- 
ticularly in that fquivocal kind of weather, when 



2Q4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I 
threw aside the newspaper, and explored my way 
to the kitchen, to take a peep at the group that 
appeared to be so merry. It was composed part- 
ly of travellers who had arrived some hours before 
in a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants 
and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round 
a great burnished stove, that might have been 
mistaken for an altar, at which they were wor- 
shipping. It was covered with various kitchen 
vessels of resplendent brightness ; among which 
steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A 
large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the 
group, bringing out many odd features in strong 
relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spa- 
cious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote cor- 
ners, except where they settled in mellow radi- 
ance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or 
were reflected back from well-scoured utensils, 
that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A 
strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants 
in her ears, and a necklace with a golden heart 
suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of the 
temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with 
pipes, and most of them with some kind of even- 
ing potation. I found their mirth was occasioned 
by ajiecdotes, which a little swarthy Frenchman, 
with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was 
giving of his love adventures ; at the end of each 
of which there was one of those bursts of honest 
•unceremonious laughter, in which a man indulges 
in that temple of true liberty, an mn. 



TDK INN KITCHEN. 2Ud 

Ab I liad 110 better mode of getting through a 
>.edious bhistering evening, I took iny seat near 
.he stove, and listened to a variety of traveller's 
tales, sorce very extravagant, and most very dull. 
A.11 of them, however, have faded from my treach- 
erous memory except one, which I will endeavor 
to relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief 
zest from the manner in which it was told, and 
tlie peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. 
He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look 
of a veteran traveller. He was dressed in a tar- 
nished green travelling-jacket, with a broad belt 
round liis waist, and a pair of overalls, with but- 
tons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a 
full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, 
aquiline nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. His 
hair was light, and curled from under an old 
green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one side of 
his head. He was interrupted more than once 
by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his 
auditors ; and paused now and then to replenish 
his pipe ; at which times he had generally a 
roguish leer, and a sly joke for the buxom kitch- 
en-maid. 

I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow 
lolling in a huge arm-chair, one arm. akimbo, the 
other holding a curiously twisted tobacco-pipe, 
formed of genuine ecmne de mer, decorated with 
silver chain and silken tassel, — his head cocked on 
one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasioD 
ally as he related the following story. 



806 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM, 

A TRAVELLER'S TALE.* 




He that supper for is dight, 

He lyes Ml cold, 1 trow, this night! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray- Steel has made his bed. 

Sir Eger/Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steeu 

N the summit ot one of the heights of the 
jl Odeiiwald, a wild and romantic tract of 
fe^^^ Upper Germany, that lies not far from 
the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there 
stood, many, many years since, the Castle of the 
Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to 
decay, and almost buried among beech-trees and 
dark firs ; above which, however, its old watch- 
tower may still be seen, struggling, like the former 
possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, 
and look do^vn upon the neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family 
of Katzenellenbogen,t and inherited the relics of 
tlie property, and all the pride of his ancestors. 

* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, 
will perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested 
to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance 
aaid to have taken place at Paris. 

t /. e. Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts 
very powerful in former times. The appellation, we are tuld, 
was given in complinieiit to a peerlejs dame of the family, 
celebrated for her fine arm. 



ruE srr.cTRK brtdegroom. 207 

Though the warh'ke disposition of his predecessors 
had much impaired the family possessions, yet the 
baron still endeavored to keep up some show of 
former state. Tlie times were peaceable, and the 
German nobles, in general, had abandoned their 
inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' nests 
among the mountains, and had built more conven- 
ient residences in the valleys : still the baron re- 
mained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, 
cherishing, with hereditary inveteracy, all the old 
family feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some 
of his nearest neighbors, on account of dispute 
that had happened between their great-great-grand 
fathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but 
nature, when she grants but one child, always 
compensates by making it a prodigy ; and so it 
was with the daughter of the baron. All the 
nurses, gossips, and country cousins assured her 
father that she had not her equal for beauty in all 
Germany ; and who shoidd know better than 
they ? She had, moreover, been brought up with 
great care under the superintendence of two maid- 
en aunts, who had spent some years of their early 
life at one of the little German courts, and were 
skilled in all the branches of knowledge necessary 
to the education of a fine lady. Under their in- 
structions she became a miracle of accomplish- 
ments. By the time she was eighteen, she could 
embroider to admiration, and had worked whole 
histories of the saints in tapestry, with such 
strength of expression in their countenances, that 
they looked like so many souls in purgatory 



208 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

She could read without great difficulty, and had 
Bpelled her way tlirough several church legends, 
and almost all the cliivalrF3 wonders of the Hel- 
denbuch. She had even made considerable pro- 
ficiency in writing ; could sign her own name 
without missing a letter, and so legibly, that her 
aunts could read it without spectacles. She ex- 
celled in making little elegant good-for-nothing 
iady-like knickknacks of all kinds ; was versed in 
the most abstruse dancing of the day ; played a 
number of airs on the harp and guitar ; and 
knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders 
by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and co- 
quettes in their younger days, were admirably cal- 
culated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors 
of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no du- 
enna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, 
as a superannuated coquette. She Avas rarely suf- 
fered out of their sight ; never went beyond the 
domams of the castle, unless well attended, or rath- 
er well watch'ed ; had continual lectures read to 
her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; 
and, as to the men — pah ! — she was taught to 
hold them at such a distance, and in such absolute 
distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she 
would not have cast a glance upon the handsoui- 
est cavalier in the world — no, not if he were even 
dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonder- 
fully apparent. The young lady was a pattern 
of docility and correctness. While others were 
wasting tbeir sweetness hi the glare of the world. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEaROOM. 209 

and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by 
every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and 
lovely womanhood under the protection of those 
immaculate spinsters like a rose-bud blushing forth 
among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon 
her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that 
though all the other young ladies in the world 
might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of 
the kind could happen to the heu-ess of Katzen- 
ellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Land- 
short might be provided with children, his house- 
hold was by no means a small one ; for Provi- 
dence had enriched him with abundance of poor 
relations. They, one and all, possessed the affec- 
tionate disposition common to humble relatives ; 
were wonderfully attached to the baron, and took 
every possible occasion to come in swarms and 
enliven the castle. All family festivals were com- 
memorated by these good people at the baron's 
expense ; and when they were filled with good 
cheer, they would declare that there was notliing 
on earth so delightful as these family meetmgs, 
these jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large 
soul, and it swelled with satisfaction at the con- 
sciousness of being the greatest man in the little 
world about him. He loved to tell long stories 
about the dark old warriors whose portraits looked 
grimly down from the walls around, and he found 
no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. 
He was much given to the marvellous, and a firm 
believer in all those supernatural tales with whicb 
U 



210 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

every mountain and valley in Germany abounds* 
The faith of his guests exceeded even his own. 
they listened to every tale of wonder with open 
eyes and mouth, and never failed to be aston- 
ished, even though repeated for the hundredth 
time. Thus live^ the Baron Von Landshort, the 
oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his 
little territory, and happy, above all things, in the 
persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there 
was a great family-gathering at the castle, on an 
aifair of the utmost importance : it was to receive 
the destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. 
A negotiation had been carried on between the 
father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite 
the dignity of their houses by the marriage of 
their children. The preliminaries had been con- 
ducted with proper punctilio. The young people 
were betrothed without seeing each other ; and 
the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. 
The young Count Von Altenburg had been re- 
called from the army for the purpose, and was 
actually on his way to the baron's to receive his 
bride. Missives had even been received from 
him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally 
detained, mentioning the day and hour when he 
might be expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation 1g 
give him a suitable welcome. The fair bride 
had been decked out with uncommon care. The 
two aimts had superintended her toilet, and quar- 
relled the whole morning about every article of 
her dress. The young lady had taken advantage 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 211 

3f tlieir contest to follow the bent of her own 
taste ; and fortunately it was a good one. She 
looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could 
desire ; and the flutter of expectation heightened 
the lustre of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled l|pr face and neck, 
the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now 
and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft tu- 
mult that was going on in her little heart. The 
aunts were continually hovering around her ; for 
maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in 
affairs of this nature. They were giving her a 
world of staid counsel how to deport herself, what 
to say, and in what manner to receive the ex- 
pected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. 
He had, in truth, nothing exactly to do ; but he 
was naturally a fuming, bustling little man, and 
could not remain passive when all the world was 
in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of 
the castle with an air of infinite anxiety ; he 
continually called the servants from their work 
to exhort them to be diligent ; and buzzed about 
every hall and chamber, as idly restless and im- 
portunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm sum- 
mer's day. 

In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed ; 
the forests- had rung with the clamor of the hunts- 
men ; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; 
the cellars had yi^ded up whole oceans of Ithein- 
wein and Ferne-wein ; and even the great Heidel- 
berg tun had been laid under contribution. Ev- 
erything was ready to receive the distinguished 



212 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

guest with Saus und Braus in the true spirit of 
German luspitality ; — but the guest delayed to 
make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. 
The sun, that had poured his downward rays 
upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just 
gleamed along the summits of the mountains. 
The baron mounted the highest tower, and strained 
his eyes in hope of catching a distant sight of the 
count and his attendants. Once he thought he 
beheld them ; the sound of horns came floating 
from the valley, prolonged by the mountain ech- 
oes. A number of horsemen were seen far be- 
low, slowly advancing along the road ; but when 
they had nearly reached the foot of the mountain, 
they suddenly struck off in a different direction. 
The last ray of sunshine departed, — the bats 
began to flit by in the twilight, — the road grew 
dimmer and dimmer to the view, and nothing 
appeared stirring in it but now and then a peas- 
int lagging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this 
state of perplexity, a very interesting scene was 
transacting in a different part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tran- 
quilly pursuing his route in that sober jog-trot 
way, in which a man travels toward matrimony 
when his friends have taken all the trouble and 
uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and a 
bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a dimier 
at the end of his journey. He had encoimtered 
at Wiirtzburg a youthful companion m arras, 
with whom he had seen some service on the fron- 
tiers, — Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the 



FEE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 213 

Stoutest hands and worthiest hearts of German 
yhivalrj, who was now returning from the army. 
His father's castle was not far distant from the 
old fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary 
feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers 
to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, 
the young friends related all their past adventures 
and fortunes, and the count gave the whole his 
tory of his intended nuptials with a young lady 
whom he had never seen, but of whose charms 
he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the fi-iends lay in the same 
direction, they agreed to perform the rest of their 
journey together ; and, that they might do it the 
more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at au 
early hour, the count having given directions for 
his retinue to follow aud overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollec- 
tions of their military scenes and adventures ; but 
the count was apt to be a little tedious, now and 
then, about the reputed cliarms of his bride, and 
the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the moun- 
tains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one 
of its most lonely and thickly-wooded passes. It 
is well known that the forests of Germany have 
always been as much infested by robbers as its 
castles by spectres ; and, at this time, the formei 
were particularly numerous, from the hordes of 
iisbanded soldiers wandering about the country. 
It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, thai 
the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these 



214 THE SKETCU-BOOK. 

Stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They do- 
fended themselves with bravery, but were nearly 
overpowered, when the count's retinue arrived to 
their assistance. At siglit of them the robbers 
fled, but not until the count had received a mor- 
tal wound. He was slowly and carefully con- 
veyed back to the city of Wiirtzburg, and a friar 
summoned from a neighboring convent, who was 
famous for his skill in administering to both soul 
and body ; but half of his skill was superfluous ; 
the moments of the unfortunate count were num- 
bered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend 
to repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and 
explain the fatal cause of his not keeping his ap- 
pointment with his bride. Though not the most 
ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctil- 
ious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that 
his mission should be speedily and courteously 
executed. " Unless tliis is done," said he, " I 
shall not sleep quietly in my grave ! " He 
repeated these last words with peculiar solem- 
nity. A request, at a moment so impressive, 
admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored 
to soothe him to calmness ; promised faithfully to 
execute his wish, and gave him his hand in sol- 
emn pledge. The dying man pressed it in ac- 
knowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — 
raved about his bride — his engagements — his 
plighted word ; ordered his horse, that he might 
ride to the castle of Landshort ; and expired in 
the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenftiust bestowed a sigb and a soldier's 



TUE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 215 

tear on the untimely fate of his comrade ; c*j.d 
then pondered on the awkward mission he had 
undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head 
perplexed ; for he was to present himself an un- 
bidden guest among hostile people, and to damp 
their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. 
Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity 
in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of 
Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up fi'om the 
world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the 
sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and 
enterprise in his character that made him fond of 
all singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due ar- 
rangements with the holy fraternity of the con- 
vent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, 
who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wiirtz- 
burg, near some of liis illustrious relatives ; and 
the mourning retinue of the count took charge 
of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to 
the ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who 
were impatient for their guest, and still more for 
their dinner ; and to the worthy little baron, 
whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. 
The baron descended from the tower in despair. 
The banquet, which had been delayed from hour 
'o hour, could no longer be postponed. The 
oieats were already overdone ; the cook in an 
agony ; and the whole household had the look of 
\ garrison that had been reduced by famine. 
rh« baron was obliged reluctantly to give ordeni 



8ri6 THE SKETlU-BOOK. 

for the feast without the presence of the guest 
All were seated at table, and just on the point 
of commencing, when the sound of a horn from 
without the gate gave notice of the approach of 
a stranger. Another long blast filled the old 
courts of the castle with its echoes, and was an- 
swered by the warder from the walls. The 
baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the 
stranger was before the gate. He was a tall, 
gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His 
countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, ro- 
mantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. 
The baron was a little mortified that he should 
have come in this simple, solitary style. His 
dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt dis- 
posed to consider it a want of proper respect for 
the important occasion, and the important family 
with which he was to be connected. He pacified 
himself, however, with the conclusion, that it 
must have been youthful impatience which had 
induced him thus to spur on sooner than his 
attendants. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in 
upon you thus unseasonably " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world 
of compliments and gi^eetings ; for, to tell the 
truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy and 
eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or 
^wice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, 
9o he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. 
By the time the baron had come to a pause, they 
Uad reached the inner court of the castle ; and 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 217 

the. stranger was agaiii about to speak, when h^ 
was once more interrupted by the appearance of 
the female part of the family, leading forth the 
?hrinkmg and blusliing bride. He gazed on her 
for a moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if 
his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and 
rested upon that lovely form. One of the 
maiden aunts whispered something in her ear : 
she made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye 
was timidly raised ; gave a shy glance of inquiry 
on the stranger ; and was cast again to the 
ground. The words died away ; but there was 
a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft 
dimpling of the cheek that showed her glance 
had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible 
for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly 
predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be 
pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived 
left no time for parley. The baron was peremp- 
tory, and deferred all particular conversation un- 
til the morning, and led the way to the untasted 
banquet. 

It was seiwed up in the gi-eat hall of the ca.*tle. 
Around the walls hung the hard-favo'red portraits 
of tlie heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, 
and the trophies which they had gained in the 
field and in the chase. Hacked corselets, splin- 
tered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were 
mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare ; the 
•aws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, 
grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle- 
4XCS, and a huge pair of antlers branched im 



218 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

raediatel/ over the head of the youthful bride* 
groom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the com- 
pany or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted 
the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration 
of his bride. He conversed in a low tone that 
could not be overheard — for the language of 
love is never loud ; but where is the female ear 
Bo dull that it cannot catch the softest wljisper 
of the lover ? There was a mingled tenderness 
and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have 
a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her 
color came and went as she listened with deep 
attention. Now and then she made some blush- 
ing reply, and when his eye was turned away, 
she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic 
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender 
happiness. It was evident that the young couple 
were completely enamored. The aunts, who 
were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, 
declared that they had fallen in love with each 
other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, 
for the guests were all blessed with those keen 
appetites that attend upon light purses and moun- 
tain-air. The baron told his best and longest 
stories, and never had he told them so well, or 
with such great effect. If there was anything 
marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonish- 
ment ; and if anything facetious, they were sure 
to laugh exactly in the right place. The baron, 
it is true, like most great men, was too dignified 
U) ulter any joke but a dull one ; it was always 



THE UPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 219 

Dufbrced, however, by a bumper of exoelleut 
Hocklieimer ; and even a dull joke, at one's own 
table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresist- 
ible. Many good things were said by poorer and 
keener wits, that would not bear repeating, 
except on similar occasions ; many sly speeches 
whispered in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed 
them with suppressed laughter ; and a song or 
two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad- 
faced cousin of the baron, that absolutely made 
the maiden aunts hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest 
maintained a most singular and unseasonable 
gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast 
of dejection as the evening advanced ; and, 
strange as it may appear, even the baron's jokes 
seemed only to render him the more melancholy. 
At times he was lost in thought, and at times 
there was a perturbed and restless wandering of 
the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His 
conversations with the bride became more and 
more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds 
began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, 
and tremors to run through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the com- 
pany. Their gayety was chilled by the unac- 
countable gloom of the bridegroom ; their spirits 
were infected ; whispers and glances were inter- 
changed, accompanied by shrugs and dubious 
shakes of the head. The song and the laugh 
grew less and less frequent; there were dreary 
pauses in the conversation, which were at length 



220 THE dKETcE-BOOK. 

succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legend* 
One dismal story produced another still more dis- 
mal, and the baron nearly frightened some of the 
ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin 
horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; a 
dreadful story, which has since been put into ex- 
cellent verse, and is read and believed by all the 
world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with pro- 
found attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed 
on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close, 
oegan gradually to rise from his seat, growing 
taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced 
eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The 
moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep 
sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. 
They were all amazement. The baron was per- 
fectly thunderstruck. 

" Wliat ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? 
why, everything was prepared for his reception ; 
a chamber was ready for him if he wished to re- 
tire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and 
mysteriously ; " I must lay my head in a different 
chamber to-night ! " 

There was something in this reply, and the tone 
in which it was uttered, that made the baron's 
heart misgive him ; but he rallied his forces, and 
-epeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but posi- 
tively, at every offer ; and, waving his farewell 
to the company, stalked slowly out of the hiili. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 221 

The Qiaiden aunts were absolutely petrified ; the 
bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. 

Tlie baron followed the stranger to the great 
court of the castle, where the black charger stood 
pawing the earth, and snorting with imj^atience. — 
When they had reached the portal, whose deep 
archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stran- 
ger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow 
tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still 
more sepulchral. 

" Now that we are alone," said he, *' I will im- 
part to you the reason of my going. I have a sol- 
emn, an indispensable engagement " — 

" Why," said the baron, " cannot you send some 
one in your place ? " 

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it 
m person — I must away to Wiirtzburg cathe- 
dral "— 

" Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, " but 
not until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take 
your bride there." 

" No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold 
solemnity, " my engagement is with no bride — 
the worms ! the worms expect me ! I am a dead 
man — I have been slain by robbers — my body 
lies at Wiirtzburg — at midnight I am to be bur- 
ied — the grave is waiting for me — T must keep 
my appointment ! " 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the 
drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofa 
was lost in the whistling of the night-blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost 



222 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

consternation, and related what had passed. Two 
ladies fainted outright, others sickened at the idea 
of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the 
opinion of some, that this might be the wild 
huntsman, famous in German legend. Some 
talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and 
of other supernatural beings, with which the 
good people of Germany have been so grievously 
harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor 
relations ventured to suggest that it might be 
sortie sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and 
that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to 
accord with so melancholy a personage. This, 
however, drew on him the indignation of tho 
whole company, and especially of the baron, who 
looked upon him as little better tlian an infidel ; 
so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedi- 
ly as possibly, and come into the faith of the true 
believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts enter- 
tained, they were completely put to an end by 
the arrival, next day, of regular missives, con- 
firming the intelligence of the young count's 
murder, and his interment in Wiirtzburg cathe- 
dral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imag- 
ined. The baron shut himself up in his chamber. 
The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, 
could not think of abandoning him in his distress. 
They wandered about the courts, or collected in 
groups in the hall, shakmg their heads and shrug- 
ging their shoulders, at the troubles of so good a 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 223 

maD ; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate 
and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of 
keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the 
widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have 
lost a husband before she had even embraced him 
— and such a husband ! if the very spectre could 
be so gracious and noble, what must have been 
the living man. She filled the house with lamen- 
tations. 

On the night of the second day of her widow- 
hood, she had retired to her chamber, accompanied 
by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with 
her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers 
of ghost-stories in all Germany, had just been re- 
counting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep 
in the very midst of it. The chamber was re- 
mote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece 
lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising 
moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen- 
tree before the lattice. The castle-clock had just 
tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music stole 
up from the garden. She rose hastily from her 
bed, and stepped lightly to the window. A tall 
figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As, 
it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon 
the countenance. Heaven and earth ! she beheld 
the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that 
moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, wlio 
had been awakened by the music, and had followed 
her silently to the window, fell into her arms. 
When she looked again, the spectre had disap 
peared. 



224 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Of the two females, the aunt now requii'ed the 
most soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself 
with terror. As to the young lady, there was 
something, even in the spectre of her lover, th^^l 
seemed endearing. There was still the semblance 
of manly beauty ; and though the shadow of a 
man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections 
of a lovesick girl, yet, where the substance is not 
to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt de- 
clared she would never sleep in that chamber 
again ; the niece, for once, was refractory, and 
declared as strongly that she would sleep in no 
other in the castle: the consequence was, that she 
had to sleep in it alone ; but she drew a promise 
from her aunt not to relate the story of the spec- 
tre, lest she should be denied the only melancholy 
pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the 
chamber over which the guardian shade of her 
lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have ob- 
served this promise is uncertain, for she dearly 
loved to talk of the marvellous, and there is a tri- 
umph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; 
it is, however, still quoted in the neighborhood, as 
a memorable instance of female secrecy, that she 
kept it to herself for a whole week ; when she 
was suddenly absolved from all further restraint, 
by intelligence brought to the breakfast-table one 
morning that the young lady was not to be found. 
Her room was empty — the bed had not been 
slopt in — the window was open, and the bird 
had flown ! 



IHE iSI'ACTRE BRIDEGROOM. 225 

The astonishment and concern with which the 
intelligence was received can only be imagined 
by those who have witnessed the agitation which 
the mishaps of a great man cause among his 
friends. Even the poor relations paused for a 
moment from the indefatigable labors of the 
trencher ; when the aunt, who had at first been 
struck speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked 
out, " The goblin ! the goblin ! she 's carried away 
by the goblin ! " 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of 
the garden, and concluded that the spectre must 
have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics 
corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the 
clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain 
about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the 
spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to 
the tomb. All present were struck with the dire • 
ful probability ; for events of the kind are ex- 
tremely common in Germany, as many well-au- 
thenticated histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the 
poor baron ! What a heart-rending dilemma for 
a fond father, and a member of the great family 
of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter had 
either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to 
have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, 
{)erchan(!e, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As 
usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the 
castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to 
take horse, and scour every road and path and 
glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had 
15 



226 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his swonJ 
and was about to mount liis steed to sally forth on 
the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a 
pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen ap- 
proaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attend- 
ed by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up 
to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at 
the baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his 
lost daughter, and her companion — the Spectre 
Bridegroom ! The baron was astounded. He 
looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, and 
almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The 
latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his ap- 
pearance since his visit to the world of spirits. 
His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure 
of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and 
melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed 
with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large 
dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cava- 
lier (for, in truth, as you must have knoAvn all 
the while, he was no goblin) announced himself 
as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related 
his adventure with the younp- count. He told 
how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the 
unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the 
baron had interrupted him in everv Attempt to tell 
his tale. How the sijrht of the bride had com- 
pletely captivated him, and that to pass a few 
iiours near her, be had tacitly sulFered the mistake 
to contiime. How he had been sorelv perplexed 
in what way to make a decent retreat. Motil the 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 227 

baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric 
exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the 
family, he had repeated his visits by stealth — 
had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's 
window — had wooed — had won — had borne 
away in triumph — and, in a word, had wedded 
(he fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would 
have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of pa- 
ternal authority, and devoutly obstinate in all 
family feuds ; but he loved his daughter ; he had 
lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still 
alive ; and, though her husband was of a hostile 
house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. 
There was something, it must be acknowledged, 
that did not exactly accord with his notions of 
strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed 
upon him of his being a dead man ; but several 
old friends present, who had served in the wars, 
assured him that every stratagem was excusable 
in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to espe- 
cial privilege, having lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The 
baron pardoned the young couple on the spot 
The revels at the caslle were resumed. The 
poor relations overwhelmed this new member of 
the family with loving-kindness ; he was so gal- 
lant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it 
is true, were somewhat scandalized that their 
system of strict seclusion and passive obedience 
sliould be so badly exemplified, but attributed it 
all to then negligence in not having the wiDdow* 



m 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



grated. One of them was particularly mortified 
at having her marvellous story marred, and that 
the only spectre she had ever seen should turn 
out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly 
happy at having found him substantial fle^>li aiid 
blood — and so the story ends. 




WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 229 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 



When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte 
Livuig in brasse or stoney monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte: 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty. 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination V 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
Could not content or quench their appetites. 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 159S. 

!N one of those sober and rather melan- 
choly days, in the latter pai-t of Autumn, 
when the shadows of morning and even- 
ing almost mingle together, and throw a gloom 
over the decluie of the year, I passed several 
hours m rambling about Westminster Abbey. 
There was something congenial to the season in 
the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, 
as I passed its threshold, seemed like stepping 
hack into the regions of antiquity, and losing my- 
self among the shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster 
School, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that 
had an almost subterranean look, being dimly 
lighted in one pai't by circidar perforations in 




8S0 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the massive walls. Through this daik avenue I 
had a distant view of the cloisters, with the fig- 
ure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving 
along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a 
spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The 
approach to the abbey through these gloomy 
monastic remains prepares the mind for its sol- 
emn contemplation. The cloisters still retain 
something of the quiet and seclusion of former 
days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, 
and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has 
gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monu- 
ments, and obscured the death's-heads, and other 
funereal emblems. The sharp touches of the 
chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the 
arches ; the roses which adorned the key-stones 
have lost their leafy beauty ; everything bears 
marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which 
yet has something touching and pleasing in its 
very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal 
ray into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon 
a scanty plot of grass in the centre, and lighting 
up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind 
of dusky splendor. From between the arcades, 
the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a pass- 
hig cloud, and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the 
abbey towenng into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplat- 
ing this mingled picture of glory and decay, and 
sometimes endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions 
on the tombstones, which formed the pavement 
beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 281 

figures, rudely carved in relief, but iiearxy worL 
away by the footsteps of many generations. 
They were the effigies of three of the early ab- 
bots ; the epitaphs were entu'ely effiiced ; the 
names alone remained, having no doubt been rc- 
new^ed in later times. (Vitalis Abbas. 1082, and 
Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Lau- 
rentius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little 
while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, 
thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of 
time, telling uo tale but that such beings had been, 
and had perished ; teaching no moral but the fu- 
tility ot that pride which hopes still to exact 
homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. 
A little longei, and even these faint records will 
be obliterated, and the monument will cease to 
be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down 
upon thesb gravestones, I was roused by the sound 
of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to 
buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is 
almost startling to hear this warning of departed 
time sounding among the tombs, and telling the 
lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled 
us onward towards the grave. I pursued my 
^^'alk to an arthed door opening to the interior of 
tlie abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of 
tlie building breaks fully upon the mind, con- 
trasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes 
gaze with wonder at clustered columns of gigan- 
tic dimensions, with arches springing from them 
to such an amazing height ; and man wandering 
about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in 
soinparison with his own handiwork. The spa* 



232 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce 
a profound and mysterious awe. We step cau- 
tiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturb- 
ing the hallowed silence of the tomb ; while 
every footfall whispers along the walls, and chat- 
ters among the sepulchres, making us more sensi- 
ble of the quiet we have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the plac( 
presses down upon the soul, and hushes the be- 
holder into noiseless reverence. We feel that 
we are surrounded by the congregated bones of 
the great men of past times, who have filled his- 
tory with their deeds, and the earth with their 
renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the 
vanity of human ambition, to see how they are 
crowded together and jostled in the dust ; what 
parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty 
nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, 
to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not 
satisfy ; and how many shapes, and forms, and 
artifices are devised to catch the casual notice of 
the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for 
a few short years, a name which once aspired to 
occupy ages of the world's thought and admira- 
tion. 

I jmssed some time in Poet's Corner, which 
occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross 
aisles of the abbey. The monuments are gener- 
ally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford 
00 striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare 
and Addison have statues erected to their mem- 
ories ; but the greater part have busts, medal 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 288 

lions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwith- 
standing tlie simplicity of these memorials, T have 
always observed that the visitors to the abbey 
remained longest about them. A kinder and 
fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity 
or vague admiration with which they gaze on the 
splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. 
They linger about these as about the tombs of 
friends and companions ; for indeed there is some- 
thing of companionship between the author and 
the reader. Other men are known to posterity 
only through the medium of history, which is 
continually growing faint and obscure ; but the 
intercourse between the author and his fellow- 
men is ever new, active, and immediate. He 
has lived for them more than for himself; he 
has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments< and shut 
himself up from the delights of social life, that 
he might the more intimately commune with 
distant minds and distant ages. Well may the 
world cherish his renown ; for it has been pur- 
chased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but 
by tlie diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well 
may posterity be grateful to his memory ; for he 
has left it an inheritance, not of empty names 
and sounding actions, but whole treasures of 
wisdom, bi-ight gems of thought, and golden 
veins of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll 
towards that part of the abbey which contains 
vhe sepulchres of the kings. I wandered among 
what once were chapels, but which are now occu- 
pied by the lombs and monuments of the gretrt 



234 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

At every turn I met with some illustrious name, 
or the cognizance of some powerful house re- 
nowned in history. As the eye darts into these 
dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of 
quaint effigies ; some kneeling in niches, as if 
in devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, 
with hands piously pressed together ; warriors 
in armor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates 
with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in robes 
and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glan- 
cing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet 
where every form is so still and silent, it seems 
almost as if we were treading a mansion of that 
fabled city, where every being had been suddenly 
transmuted into stone. 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay 
the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A 
large buckler was on one arm ; the hands were 
pressed together in supplication upon the breast ; 
the face was almost covered by the morion ; the 
legs were crossed in token of the warrior's hav- 
ing been engaged in the holy war. It was the 
tomb of a Crusader ; of one of those military 
enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion 
and romance, and whose exploits form the con- 
necting Imk between fact and fiction ; between 
the history and the fairy tale. There is some- 
thing extremely picturesque in the tombs of these 
adventurers, decorated as they are with rude 
armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They 
comport with the antiquated chapels in w^hich 
they are generally found ; and in considering 
Miem, the imagination is apt to kindle with the 



WESTMINISTER aBBEV. 236 

legendary associations, the romantic riction, the 
chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry 
has spread over the wars for tlie sepulchre of 
Clmst. They are the relics of times utterly gono 
by ; of beings passed from recollection ; of cus- 
toms and manners with wiiich ours have no affinity. 
They are like objects from some strange and dis- 
tant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, 
and about which all our conceptions are vague 
and visionary. There is something extremely 
solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic 
tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or 
in the supplication of the dying hour. They 
have an effect mfinitely more impressive on my 
feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over- 
wrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which 
abound on modern monuments. I have been 
struck, also, with the superiority of many of the 
old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble 
way, in former times, of saying things simply, 
and yet saying them proudly ; and I do not 
know an epitaph that breathes a loftier conscious- 
ness of family worth and honorable lineage than 
one which affirms, of a noble house, that " all 
the brothers were brave, and all the sisters 
virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Comer 
stands a monument which is among the most re- 
lowned achievements of modern art ; but which 
to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It 
is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. 
The bottom of the monument is represented as 
•Jirowing open its marble doors, -and a sheeted 



236 Til E SKETCU-B OK. 

skeleton is starting forth. The sliroud is falling 
from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart 
at liis victim. She is sinking into her affrighted 
husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic 
effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed 
with terrible truth and spirit ; we almost fancy we 
hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from 
the distended jaws of the spectre. — But why 
should we thus seek to clothe death with un- 
necessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the 
tomb of those we love ? The grave should 'be 
surrounded by everything that might inspire 
tenderness and veneration for the dead ; or that 
might win the living to virtue. It is the place, 
not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and 
meditation. 

Wliile ^vandering about those gloomy vaults 
and silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, 
the sound of busy existence from without occa- 
sionally reaches the ear ; — the rumbling of the 
passing equipage ; the murmur of the multitude ; 
or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The con- 
trast is striking with the deathlike repose around : 
and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus 
to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, 
and beating against the very walls of the sep- 
ulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to 
tomb, and fi-om chapel to cliapel. The day was 
gradually wearing away ; the distant tread of loi- 
terers about the abbey grew less and less fre- 
quent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to 
evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance the 



^VESTMINSTER ABBEY. 287 

choristers, ir. their wliite surplices, crossing the 
aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the 
entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A 
flight of steps lead up to it, thi'ough a deep and 
gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of 
brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily 
upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit 
the feet of common mortals into this most gor- 
geous of sepulchres. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp 
of architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculp- 
tured detail. The very walls are wrought into 
universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and 
scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of 
saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cun- 
ning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of 
its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by 
magic, and the fretted joof achieved with the 
wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cob- 
web. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty 
stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved 
of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of 
Gotliic architecture. On the pinnacles of the 
stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the 
kniglits, with their scarfs and swords ; and above 
them are suspended their banners, emblazoned 
mth armorial bearings, and contrasting the splen- 
dor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold 
gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of 
this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of 
«ts founder, — his effigy, with that of his queen, 
extended on * sumptuous tomb, and the whole 



238 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen rail- 
ing. 

There is a sad di^eariness in this magnificence 
fhis strange mixture of tombs and trophies ; these 
emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close 
beside mementos which show the dust and ob- 
livion in which all must sooner or later terminate. 
Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling 
(;f loneliness than to tread the silent and de- 
serted scene of former throng and pageant. On 
looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights 
and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but 
gorgeous banners that were once borne before 
them, my imagination conjured up the scene 
when this hall was bright with the valor and 
beauty of the land ; glittering with the splendor 
of jewelled rank and military array ; alive with 
the tread of many feet and the hum of an 
admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the 
silence of death had settled again upon the place, 
interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, 
which had found their way into the chapel, and 
built their nests among its friezes and pendants — 
sure si^ns of solitariness and desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the ban- 
ners, they were those of men scattered far and 
wide about the world ; some tossing upon distant 
^eas ; some under arms in distant lands ; some 
mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and 
cabinets ; all seeking to deserve one more dis- 
tinction in this mansion of shadowy honors : the 
\nelancholy reward* of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapol 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 2S9 

present a toucliing instance of the equality of the 
grave ; which brings down the oppressor to a 
level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of 
the bitterest enemies together. In one is the 
sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other 
is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate 
Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejacula- 
tion of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, 
mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The 
walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo 
with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave 
of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle 
where Mary lies buried. The light struggles 
dimly through windows darkened by dust. The 
greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and 
the walls are stained and tinted by time and 
weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched 
upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, 
much corroded, bearing her national emblem — 
the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and 
sat do\vn to rest myself by the monument, re- 
volving in my mind the checkered and disastrous 
story of poor IMary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from 
the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the 
distant voice of the priest repeating the evening 
service, and the faint responses of the choir; 
these paused for a time, and all was hushed. 
The stilhiess, the desertion and obscui'ity that 
wer3 gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper 
and more solemn interest to the place. 

P^or in the silent ,<;ra\ e no coiiversation, 

No Joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers. 



240 rHE SKETClI-bOOK. 

No careful father's counsel — nothing 's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of tbe deep-laboring organ 
burst upon the ear, fallhig with doubled and re- 
doubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge 
billows of sound. How well do their volume 
and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! 
With what pomp do they swell through its vast 
vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through 
these caves of death, and make the silent sepul- 
chre vocal ! — And now they rise in triumph 
and acclamation, heaving higher and higher their 
acv^ordant notes, and piling sound on sound. — 
And 'now they pause, and the soft voices of the 
choir break out into sweet gushes of melody ; 
they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and 
seem to play about these lofty vaults like the 
pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ 
heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air 
into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. 
What long - drawn cadences ! What solemn 
sweeping concords ! It grows more and more 
dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and 
seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned 
— the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is 
winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from the 
earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt 
away and floated upwards on this swelling tide" 
of harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie 
which a strain of mu^ic. is apt sometimes to in- 
spire : the shadows of evening were gradually 
thickening round me ; the monuments began to 
{•;)"♦ <1('('P.'M- Hi)d <](>rMu'r ulo'vTii : and the distant 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 241 

clock again gave token of the slowly waning 
day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I 
descended the flight of steps which lead into the 
body of the building, my eye was caught by the 
shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended 
the small staircase that conducts to it, to take 
fi'om thence a general survey of this wilderness 
of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind 
of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres 
of various kings and queens. From this emi- 
nence the eye looks down between pillars and 
funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers 
below, crowded with tombs, — where warriors, 
prelates, courtiers, and statesmen lie mouldering 
in their " beds of darkness." Close by me stood 
the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of 
oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and 
Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if con- 
trived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an 
effect upon the beholder. Plere was a type of 
the beginning and the end of human pomp and 
power ; here it was literally but a step from the 
throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think 
tliat these incongruous mementos had been gath 
ered together as a lesson to living greatness ? — 
to show it, even in the moment of its proudest 
exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it 
must soon arrive ; how soon that crown which 
encircles its brow must pass away, and it must 
lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, 
and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest 

of t])e ninltitiule. For, straiiiiv lo fell, (:V(mi the 
10 



?42 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There ife 
a shocking levity in some natures, which leads 
them to sport with awful and hallowed things; 
and there are base minds, which delight to re- 
venge on the illustrious dead the abject homage 
and grovelling servility which they pay to the 
living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has 
been broken open, and his remains despoiled of 
their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has been 
stolen from the hand of the imperious P^lizabeth, 
and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. 
Not a royal monument but bears some proof 
how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. 
Some are plundered ; some mutilated ; some cov- 
ered with ribaldry and insult, — all more or less 
outraged and dishonored! 

The last beams of day were now faintly 
streaming through the painted windows in high 
vaults above me ; the lower parts of the abbey 
were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. 
The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. 
The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the 
marble figures of the momiments assumed strange 
shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze 
crept through the aisles like the cold breath of 
I he grave; and even tJie distant footfall of a 
verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had some- 
thing strange and dreaiy in its sound. I slowly 
retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out 
at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing 
with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whola 
building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my 
mind of the objects J had been contemplating^ 



\VLS'I\}fL\STi:R AHDEY. 243 

but found they were already fallen inlo indistinct* 
ness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, 
had all become confounded in my recollection, 
though I had scarcely taken my foot from off 
the threshold. Wliat, tliought I, is this vast as- 
semblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humilia 
lion ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the 
emptiness if renown, and the certainty of ob- 
livion ! It is, indeed; the empire of death — his 
gi*eat shadowy palace, where he ' sits in state, 
mocking at the relics of human glory, and spread- 
ing dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of 
princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the im- 
mortality of a name. Time is ever silently 
turning over his pages ; we are too much en- 
grossed by the story of the present, to think of 
the characters and anecdotes that gave interest 
to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown 
aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to- 
day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our 
recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted by 
his successor of to-morrow. "■ Our fathers," says 
Sir Thomas Browne, " find their graves in our 
Bhort memories, and sadly tell us how we may 
be buried in our survivors." History fades into 
fable ; fact becomes clouded with doubt and con- 
troversy ; the inscription moulders from the tab- 
let ; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns 
inches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of 
eaud ; and their epitaphs, but characters writteB 
in the dust ? What is the security of a tomb, 
or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The w. 
niains of Alexander the Great have been scat- 
kit.d to the whid, and his empty sarcoj>ha<ju:? \> 



i?4'] 



I UK HKliTCn-BOOH. 



now the mere curiosity of a museum. " The 
Egyptian mummies, wliicli Cambyses or time 
hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim 
cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for bal- 
sams." * 

What then is to insure this pile which now 
lowers above me from sharing the fate of migh- 
tier mausoleums ? The time must come when its 
gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall 
lie in nibbish -beneath the feet ; when, instead of 
the sound of melody and praise, the wind shal 
whistle through the broken arches, and the ow. 
hoot from the shattered tower, — when the 
gairish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy 
mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the 
fallen column ; and the foxglove hang its blos- 
soms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery 
of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name 
perishes from record and recollection; his his- 
tory is as a tale that is told, and his very monu 
ment becomes a ruin.f 

* Sir T. Browne. 

\ For uotes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix 




CHRISTMAS. 245 



CHRISTIVIAS. 




Bat ifi old, old. good old Christmas gone ? N(^thing but th« 
aftir of his good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will 
have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. 

Hue and Cky aftkr Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true; 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

When this old cap was new. — Old Sono. 

lOTHING in England exercises a more 
delightful spell over my imagination 
than the lingerings of the holiday cus- 
toms and rural games of former times. They 
recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the 
May morning of life, Avhen as yet I only knew 
the world through books, and beUeved it to be all 
that poets had painted it ; and they bring with 
them the tlavor of those honest days of yore, in 
which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to 
think the world was more homebred, social, and 
joyous than at present. I regret to say that they 
are daily growing more and more faint, being 
gradually worn away by time, but still more oblit- 
erated by modern fashion. They resemble those 
oicturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which 



g«n THE SKETCn-nOOK. 

^^•c' see crumbling in various parts of the country, 
partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly 
lost in the additions and alterations of later days. 
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness 
about the rural game and holiday revel, from 
which it has derived so many of its themes — as 
tlie ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic 
ar^h and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying 
their support by clasping together their tottering 
remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verd- 
ure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christ- 
mas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt as- 
sociations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred 
feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts 
the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated en- 
joyment. The services of the church about this 
season are extremely tender and inspiring. They 
dwell on the beautifvd story of the origin of our 
faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its 
announcement. They gradually increase in fervor 
and pathos during the season of Advent, until 
they break forth in full jubilee on the morning 
that brought peace and good-will to men. I do 
not know a grander effect of music on the moral 
feelings than to hear the full choir and the peal- 
ing^ organ performing a Christmas anthem in a 
c»the(^'al, and filling every part of the vast pile 
with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived fi'oir 
days of yore, that this festival, which commemo 
rates the announcement of the religion of peace 
and love, has been made the season for gathering 



CURlSTiMAS. 247 

together of family connections, and drawing closer 
again those bands of kindred hearts, which the 
cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are 
L'onthiually operating to cast loose ; of calling 
back the children of a family, who have launclied 
forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once 
more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that 
rallying - place of the aflections, there to grow 
young and loving again among the endearing 
mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of tiie 
year that gives a charm to the festivity of Chrisi- 
mas. At other times we derive a g]eat portion 
of our pleasures from the mei-e beauties of nature. 
Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves 
over the sunny landscape, and we '' live abroad 
and everywhere." The song of tlie bird, the mur- 
mur of the stream, the breathing fj'agraace of 
spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the 
golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its mantle 
of refreshing green, and he;iven with its deep de- 
licious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill 
us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel 
in the luxury of mere sensalion. But in the 
depth of whiter, wheii nature lies dcvSpoIled of 
every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of 
sheeted snow, we turn tor our gratifictitions to 
moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of 
the landscape, tlie short gloomy days and dark- 
some nights, while they circumscribe our wander- 
'ngs, shut in our feelings also from rambling 
abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for 
the pleasure of the social circle. Our thoughts 



248 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

are more concentrated ; our friendly sympathies 
more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm 
of each other's society, and are brought more 
closely together by dependence on each other 
for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart ; and 
we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of 
loving-kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses 
of our bosoms ; and which, wlien resorted to, 
furnish forth the pure element of domestic feUc- 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart di- 
late on entering the room tilled with the glow and 
warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze 
ditFuses an artificial summer and sunshme through 
the room, and Hghts up each countenance in a 
kindlier welcome. Where does the Jionest face of 
hospitality expand mto ji broader and more cordial 
smile — where is the shy glance of love more 
sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside ? 
and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes 
through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles 
about the casement, and rumbles down the chim- 
ney, what can be more grateful than that feeling 
of sober and sheltered security, with which we 
look romid upon the comfortable chamber and the 
scene of domestic hilarity ? 

The English, from the great prevalence of 
rural habit throughout every class of society have 
always been fond of those festivals and holidaya 
which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country 
life ; and they were, in former days, particularly 
observant of the religious and social rights of 
Clu*istmas. Il is inspiring to read even the dry 



CHRISTMAS. 249 

details which some antiquaries liave given of the 
quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the com- 
plete abandonment to mirth and good-fellow- 
ship, with which this festival was celebrated. It 
seemed to throw open it\\^.vy door, and unlock 
every Iieart. It brought the peasant and the 
peer together, and blended all ranks In one 
warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The 
old halls of ca.stles and manor-houses resounded 
with the harp and the Christmas carol, and tlieir 
ample boards groaned under the weight of hos- 
pitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the 
festive season with green decorations of bay and 
holly, — the cheerful fire glanced its rays through 
the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the 
latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the 
hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary 
jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modem refine- 
ment is the havoc it has made among the hearty 
old holiday customs. It has completely taken off 
the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these 
embellishments of life, and has worn down society 
into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a 
less characteristic surface. Many of the games 
and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disap- 
peared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, 
are become matters of speculation and dispute 
among commentators. They flourished in times 
"ull of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life 
roughly, but heartily and vigorously ; times wild 
and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with 
^ts richest materials, and the drama with its most 



25r THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

attractive variety of characters and marmers 
The world has become more worldly. There is 
more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleas- 
ure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower 
stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and 
quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through 
the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has 
acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone ; 
but it has lost many of its strong local peculiari- 
ties, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside de- 
lights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted 
antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly was- 
sailings, have passed away with the baronial cas- 
ties and staiely manor-houses in which they were 
celebrated. They comported with the shadowy 
hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried 
parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy saloons 
and gay drawmg-rooms of the modern villa. 

bliorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and fes- 
tive honors, Christmas is still a period of delight- 
ful excitement m England. It is gratifying to 
see that home-feenng completely aroused which 
holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. 
The preparations making on every side for the 
social board that is again to unite friends and kin- 
dred ; tne presents of good cheer passing and 
repassing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners 
of kind feelings ; the evergreens distributed about 
houses, and churches, emblems of peace and glad- 
ness ; all these have the most pleasing effect in 
producing fond associations, and kindling benevo- 
'ent sympathies. Even the sound of the Waits, 
rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the 



CHRISTMAS. 251 

mid-watches of a winter night with the effect ol 
perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by 
them in that still and solemn hour, *' when deep 
sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a 
hushed delight, and, connecting them with the sa- 
cred and joyous (occasion, have almost fancied them 
into another celestial choir, announcing peace and 
good- will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought 
upon by these moral influences, turns everything 
to melody and beauty ! The very crowing of the 
cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of 
the country, " telling the night-watches to his feath- 
ery dames," was thought by the common people to 
announce the approach of this sacred festival. 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike. 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle 
of the spirits, and stir of the aiFections, which pre- 
vail at this period, what bosom can remain insen- 
sible ? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated 
feeling — the season for kindling, not merely the 
fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame 
of charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to 
memory beyond the sterile waste of years ; and 
the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of 
home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit ; 
as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the 



252 THE SKETCn-BOOK 

freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim 
of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — 
though for me no social hearth may blaze, no hos- 
pitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm 
grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold — • 
yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into 
my soul from the happy looks of those around 
me. Surely, happiness is reflective, like the light 
of heaven ; and every countenance, bright with 
smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a 
mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme 
and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn 
churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of 
his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and 
repimng in liis loneliness when all around is joyful, 
may have his moments of strong excitement and 
selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and 
social sympathies which constitute the charm of a 
merry Chiistmas. 



TBE SI AGE- COACH. 258 



THE STAGE-COACII. 




Omne ben^ 

Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponencli. 

Old Holiday School Song. 

N the preceding paper I have made some 
general observations on the Christmag 
festivities of England, and am tempted 
to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christ- 
mas passed in the country ; in perusing which I 
would most courteously invite my reader to lay 
aside ihe austerity of wisdom, and to put on that 
genunie holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, 
and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, 
I rode for a long distance in one of the public 
coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. The 
coach was crowded, both inside and out, with pas- 
eengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally 
bound to the mansions of relations or friends, to 
eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with 
hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of deli- 
eacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears 
about the coachman's box, presents from distant 
friends for the impending feast. I Tad three fine 



254 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

rosj-clieeked boys for my fellow-passengers inside, 
full of the buxom health and manly spirit which 
I have observed in the children of this country. 
They were returning home for the holidays in high 
glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoy- 
ment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans 
of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats 
t]iey were to perform during their six weeks' 
emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, 
birch, and pedagogue. They were full of antici- 
pations of the meeting with the family and house- 
hold, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the 
joy they were to give their little sisters by the 
presents with which their pockets were crammed; 
but the meeting to which they seemed to look for- 
ward with the greatest impatience was with Ban- 
tam, which I found to be a pony, and, according 
to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any 
steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he 
could trot ! how he could run ! and then such 
leaps as he would take — there was not a hedge 
in the whole country that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship 
of the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportu- 
nity presented, they addressed a host of questions, 
and pronounced him one of the best fellows in 
the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the 
more than ordinary air of bustle and importance 
of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one 
side, and had a large bunch of Cliristmas greens 
stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is al- 
ways a personage full of mighty care and bus« 
Qess, but he is particulaj-ly so during this scas^^i. 



TUE STAGE-COACn. 255 

having so many commissions to execute in eon- 
Beqiience of the great interchange of presents 
And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to 
rny untravelled readers, to have a sketch that 
may serve as a general representation of this 
\('ry numerous and important class of function- 
Hries, who have a dress, a manner, a language;, 
an air, peculiar to themselves, and pi'evalenf 
throughout the fraternity ; so that, wherever an 
English stage-coachman may be seen, he cannot 
be mistaken for one of any other craft or mys- 
tery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously 
mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced 
by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin ; he 
is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent pota- 
tions of malt liquors, and his bulk is stiJl furtlier 
increased by a nmltiplicity of coats, in whicli he 
is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reach- 
ing to his heels. He wears a broad - brinmied, 
low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of colored hand- 
kerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and 
tucked in at the bosom ; and has in summer-time 
a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole ; tlie 
present, most probably, of some enamored country 
lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some briglit 
color, striped, and his small-clothes extend far 
below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey-bootH 
which reach about half way up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much pre- 
'•ision ; he has a pride in having his clothes of ex- 
cellent materials ; and, notwithstanding the seem- 
ing grossness of liis apj)eurance, there is still dis 



2*56 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

oernible that neatness and propriety of person, 
which is ahuost inherent in an Englishman. He 
enjoys great consequence and consideration along 
Che road ; has frequent conferences with the- vil 
lage housewives, who look upon him as a man of 
great trust and dependence ; and he seems to 
have a good understanding with every bright- 
eyed country lass. Tlie moment he arrives 
where the horses are to be changed, he throws 
down the reins with something of an air, and 
abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler ; 
his duty being merely to drive from one stage to 
another. When off the box, his hands are thrust 
into the pockets of his great-coat, and he rolls 
about the inn-yard with an air of the most abso- 
lute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded 
by an admiring throng of hostle^i-s, stable-boys, 
shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on, that 
infest imis and taverns, and run eirands, and do 
all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening 
on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage 
of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to 
an oracle ; treasure up his cant phrases ; echo his 
opinions about horses and other topics of jockey 
lore ; and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air 
and cai'riage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat 
to his back, thrusts his hands in the pockets. 
rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo 
Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing se- 
renity that reigned in my own mind, that I fan^ 
cied 1 saw cheerfulness in every countenance 
Uiroughout the journey. A stage-coach, however 



TEE STAGE COACH. 257 

carries animation always with it, and puts the 
world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, 
sounded at the entrance of a village, produces 
a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet 
friends ; some with bundles and bandboxes to se- 
cure places, and in the hurry of the moment can 
Imrdly take leave of the group that accompanies 
Ihcm. In the mean time, the coachman has a 
\^orid of small commissions to execute. Some- 
times he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes 
jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of 
a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing 
leer and words of sly import, hands to some half- 
blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped 
billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the 
coach rattles through the village, every one runs 
to the window, and you have glances on every 
side of fresh country faces and blooming giggling 
girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of 
village idlers and wise men, who take their sta- 
tions there for the important purpose of seeing 
company pass ; but the sagest knot is generally 
at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the 
coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. 
The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses 
83 the vehicle whirls by ; the cyclops round the 
anvil suspend their ringuig hammers, and suffer 
the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre, in 
brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on 
the handle for a moment, and permits the asth- 
matic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while 
he glares through the murky smoke and sulphu- 
reous gl 3ams of the smithy. 

17 



258 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have 
given a more than usual animation to the coimtry, 
for it seemed to me as if everybody was in good 
looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other 
luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in 
tlie villages ; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' 
shops were thronged with customers. The house- 
wives were stirring briskly about, putting their 
dwellings in order ; and the glossy branches of 
holly, with their bright-red berries, began to ap 
pear at the windows. The scene brought to 
mind an old writer's account of Christmas prep- 
arations : " Now capons and hens, beside turkey, 
geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — must 
all die — for in twelve days a multitude of peo- 
ple will not be fed with a little. Now plums 
and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies 
and broth. Now or never must music be in tune, 
for the youth must dance and sing to get them a 
heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The coun- 
try maid leaves half her market, and must be 
sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on 
Christmas eve. Great is the contention of holly 
and ivy, whether master or dame wears the 
breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; 
and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly 
lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious medita- 
tion by a shout from my little travelling compan- 
ions. They had been looking out of the coach- 
windows for the last few miles, recognizing every 
tree and cottage as they approached home, and 
ttow there was a general burst of joy. " There 's 



THE STAGE COACH. 259 

John ! and there 's old Carlo ! and there 's Ban- 
tam ! " cried the happy little rogues, clapping 
their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober 
looking servant in livery, waiting for them ; he 
was accompanied by a superannuated pointer, and 
by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a 
pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty taiL 
who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, littU 
dreaming of the bustUng times that awaited him. 

1 was pleased to see the fondness with wliich 
the little fellows leaped about the steady old foot- 
man, and hugged the pointer : who wriggled his 
whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great 
object of interest ; all wanted to mount at once, 
and it was with some difficulty that John arranged 
that they should ride by turns, and the eldest 
should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the 
docj boundinof and barkinof before him, and the 
Others holding John's hands ; both talking at once, 
and overpowering him with questions about home, 
and with school anecdotes. I looked after them 
with a feeling in which I do not know whether 
pleasure or melancholy predominated ; for I was 
reminded of those days Avhen, like them, I had 
neither knoAvn care nor sorrow, and a holiday was 
the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few 
moments afterwards to water the horses, and on 
resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us 
in sight of a neat country-seat. I could just dis- 
tinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls 
ID the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with 



260 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the 
carriage-road. I leaned out of the coach- window, 
hi hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a 
grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I 
iiad determined to pass the night. As we drove 
into the gi-eat gateway of the inn, I saw on one 
side the light of a rousing kitchen-fire beaming 
through a window. I entered, and admired, for 
the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, 
neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen 
of an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, 
hung round with copper and tin vessels highly pol- 
ished, and decorated here and there with a Christ- 
mas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon, 
were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke-jack 
made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and 
a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal 
table extended along one side of the kitchen, with 
a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands upon 
it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed 
mounting guard. Travellers of inferior order were 
preparing to attack this stout repast, while others 
Bat smoking and gossiping over their ale en two 
high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim 
housemaids were hurrying backwards and for- 
wards under the directions of a fresh, bustling 
landlady ; but still seizing an occasional moment 
to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying 
laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene 
completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of 
the comforts of mid-winter. 

Now trees their leafy hats do bear 
To revertinc-e Winter's silver hair; 



TH/': ST-iGE-COACn. 261 

A handsoiTie hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal-Hre, 
Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn when a postchaise 
drove up to tlie door. A young gentleman stept 
out, and by the light of the lamps I caught a 
glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew 
I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his 
eye caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was 
Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humored 
young fellow, with whom I had once travelled on 
the continent. Oiu- meeting was extremely cor- 
dial, for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller 
always brings up the recollection of a thousand 
pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent 
jokes. To discuss all these in a transient inter- 
view at an inn was impossible ; and finding that 1 
was not pressed for time, and was merely making 
a tour of observation, he insisted that I should 
give him a day or two at his father's country-seat, 
to which he was going to pass the holidays, and 
which lay at a few miles' distance. " It is better 
than eating a solitary Christmas dimier at an mn," 
said he ; " and I can assure you of a hearty wel- 
come in something of the old-fixshioned style." 
His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the 
preparation I had seen for universal festivity and 
social enjoyment had made me feel a little impa- 
tient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at 
once, with his invitation ; the chaise drove up to 
the door, and in a few moments I was on my way 
to the faniily mansion of the Bracebridges. 

* Poor Robin's Abnanac, 168A. 



262 THE SKETCa-BOOK 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 




Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight* 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is higlit good fellow Robin; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

Cartwright. 

T was a brilliant moonlight iiiglit, but ex 
tremely cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly 
over the frozen ground ; the post-boy 
smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the 
time his horses were on a gallop. "He knows 
where he is going," said my companion, laughing, 
"and is eager to arrive in time for some of the 
merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. 
My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee 
of the old school, and prides himself upon keeping 
up something of old English hospitality. He is a 
tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet 
with nowadays in its purity, the old English coun- 
try gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend so 
much of their time in town, and fashion is carried 
so much into the country, that the strong rich pe- 
culiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished 
away. My father, however, fi-om early years, 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 26S 

took honest Peacham* for liis text- book, instead 
of Chesterfield ; he determined in his own mind 
that there was no condition more truly honorable 
and enviable than that of a country gentleman on 
his paternal lands, and therefore passes the whole 
of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advo- 
cate for the revival of the old rural games and holi- 
day observances, and is deeply read in the writers, 
ancient and modern, who have treated on the sub- 
ject. Indeed his favorite range of reading is among 
the authors who flourished at least two centuries 
since ; who, he insists, wrote and thought more 
like true Englishmen than any of their successors. 
He even reirrets sometimes that he had not been 
born a few centuries earlier, when England was 
itself, and had its peculiar manners and customs. 
As he lives at some distance from the mam road, 
in rather a lonely part of the country, without any 
rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable 
of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity 
of indulo^inf]r the bent of his own humor without 
molestation. Being representative of the oldest 
family in the neighborhood, and a great part of 
the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked 
up to, and, in general, is known simply by the ap- 
pellation of ' The Squire ' ; a title wliich has been 
accorded to the Lead of the family since time im- 
memorial. I think it best to give you these hints 
about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any 
eccentricities that might otherwise appear absm-d." 
We had passed for some time along the wall of 
a park, and at length the chaise stopped at the 
* Peacliam's Complete Gentleman, 1622. 



264 THE SKETCTI-BOOK. 

gate. It was in a heavy magnificent old style, of 
iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes 
and flowers. The huge square columns that sup- 
ported the gate were surmounted by the family 
crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodges 
sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost buried ii 
shrubbery. 

The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, wliicl 
resounded through the still frosty air, and was an- 
swered by the distant barking of dogs, with which 
the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old 
woman immediately appeared at the gate. A>^ 
the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a fuU 
view of a little primitive dame, dressed very much 
in the antiqae taste, with a neat kerchief and 
stomacher, cind her silver hair peeping from un- 
der a cap of snowy whiteness. She came cour-^ 
tesying forth, with many expressions of simple jov 
at seeing her young master. Her husband, h 
seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas 
eve in the servants' Hall ; they could not do with- 
out him, as he was the best hand at a song and 
story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and 
walk through the park to the hall, which was a1 
no gi-eat distance, wliile the chaise should follow 
on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of 
ti-ees, among the naked branches of which tht 
moon glittered, as she rolled through the deep 
vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was 
Bheeted with a sliglit covering of snow, which 
here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught 
a fi'osty crystal ; and at a distance might be seen 



CnRISTJfAS EVE. 265 

A thill transparent vapor, stealing up from the low 
grounds, and threatening gradually to shroud the 
landscape. 

My companion looked around him with trans- 
port : " How often," said he, " have 1 scampered 
up this avenue, on returning home on school va- 
cati^ns ! How often have I played under these 
trees when a boy! I feel a degree of filial rev- 
erence for them, as v/e look up to those who have 
cherished us in childhood. My father was al- 
ways scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and 
naving us around him on family festivals. Pie 
used to direct and superintend our games with 
the strictness that some parents do the studies of 
their children. He Avas very particular that we 
should play the old English games according to 
their original form ; and consulted old books for 
precedent and authority for every ' merrie disport ' ; 
yet I assure you there never was pedantry so 
delightful. It was the policy of the good old 
gentleman to make his children feel that home 
was the happiest place in the Avorld ; and I value 
this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest 
gifts a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop 

of dogs of all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, 

whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree," that, 

disturbed by the ring of the porter's bell and 

the rattluig of the chaise, came bounding, open- 

«nouthed, across the lawn. 

" The h'ttle do.i^s and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me! " 

tried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of hia 



266 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

voice, the bark was clianged into a yelp of delight, 
and ill a moment he was surronnded and almost 
overpowered by the caresses of the faithful ani- 
mals. 

We had now come in full view of the old fam- 
ily mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and 
partly lit up by the cool moonshine. It was an 
irregular building, of some magnitude, and seemed 
to be of the architecture of different periods. — 
One wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy 
stone-shafted bow-windows jutting out and over- 
run with ivy, from among the foliage of which 
the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered 
with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was 
in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, 
having been repaired and altered, as my friend 
told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned 
with that monarch at the Restoration. The 
grounds about the house were laid out in the old 
formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped 
shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone 
balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue 
or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I 
was told, was extremely careful to preserve this 
obsolete finery in all its original state. lie ad- 
mired this fashion in gardening ; it had an air of 
magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting 
good old family style. The boasted imitation of 
nature in modern gardening had sprung up with 
modern republican notions, but did not suit a mo- 
narchical government ; it smacked of the levelling 
system. I could not help smiling at this intro- 
iueti m of politics mto gardening, though I ex- 



CHRISTMAS EVE, 267 

pressed some apprehension that I should find the 
old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. 
Frank assured me, however, that it was almost 
the only instimce in which he had ever heard his 
father meddle with politics ; and he believed that 
he had got this notion from a member of parlia- 
ment who once passed a few weeks with him. 
The squire was glad of any argument to defend 
Iiis clipped yew-trees and formal terraces, Avhich 
had been occasionally attacked by modern land- 
scape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the 
sound of music, and now and then a burst of 
laughter, from one end of the building. This, 
Bracebridge said, must proceed from the servants' 
hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, 
and even encouraged by the squire, throughout 
the twelve days of Christmas, provided every- 
thing was done conformably to ancient usage. 
Here were kept up the old games of hoodman 
blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the 
white loaf, bob apple, and snap-dragon ; the Yule 
clog and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, 
and the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up, 
to the imminent peril of all the pretty house- 
maids.* 

So intent were the servants upon their sports 
that we had to ring repeatedly before we could 
make ourselves heard. On our arrival being an- 
nounced, the Squire came out to receive us, ac- 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitch 
ens at Christmas; and the young men have the privilege of 
kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the 
Dush. When the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceasds 



268 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

companied by his two other sons : one a young 
officer m the army, home on leave of absence; 
the other an Oxonian, just from the university. 
The Squire was a fine healthy-looking old gentle- 
man, with silver hair curling lightly round an 
open florid countenance ; in which the physiogno- 
mist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previ- 
ous hint or two, might discover a singular mixt- 
ure of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affection- 
ate : as the evening was far advanced, the Squire 
would not permit us to change our travelling 
dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, 
which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. 
It was composed of different branches of a numer- 
ous family connection, where there were the usual 
proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable 
married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming 
country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright- 
eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were vari- 
ously occupied : some at a round game of cards ; 
others conversing around the fireplace ; at one 
end of the hall was a group of the young folks, 
some nearly grown up, others of a more tender 
and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry 
game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny 
trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, 
showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, 
who, having frolicked through a happy day, had 
been carried off to slumber through a peaceful 
night. 

Wliile the mutual greetings were going on be- 
tween young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 269 

tjjne to scan the apartment. I have called it a 
hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, and 
the Squire had evidently endeavored to restore it 
lo something of its primitive state. Over the 
heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a pict- 
ure of a warrior in armor, standing by a white 
horse, and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, 
buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous 
pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the 
branches serving as hooks on which to suspend 
hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the corners of the 
apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and 
other sporting implements. The furniture was 
of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, 
though some articles of modern convenience had 
been added, and the oaken floor had been car- 
peted; so that the whole presented an odd mixt- 
ure of parlor and hall.' 

The grate had been removed from the wide 
overwhelming fireplace, to make way for a fire of 
wood, in the midst of which was an enormous 
log glowing and blazing, and sending forth a vast 
volume of light and heat : this I understood was 
the Yule clog, which the squire was particular 
"ii having brought in and illumhied on a Christ- 
mas eve, according to ancient custom.* 

* The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root 
i>f a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony, on 
Christmas eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with tlie 
brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there was great 
drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was 
»ccompanied by Christinas candles; but in the cottages tlie 
only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood-fire. 
The Yule clog was to burn all night; if it went out, it was 
lonsiderel a sign of ill-luck. 

Herrick men''ious it in one of his songs: — 



270 TUE SKETCn-BOOK. 

It was really delightful to see the old squire 
seated in his hereditary elbow-chair, by the hospi- 
table fireside of his ancestors, and looking around 
lilm like the sun of a system, beaming warmth 
and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog 
that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted 
his position and yawned, would look fondly up in 
his master's face, wag his tail against the floor, 
and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of 
kindness and protection. There is an emanation 
from the heart in genuine hospitality which can- 
not be described, but is immediately felt, and 
puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not 
been seated many minutes by the comfortable 
hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I found 
myself as much at home as if I had been one of 
the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our ar- 
rival. It was served up in a spacious oaken 
chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, 
and around which were several family portraits 
decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the ac- 
customed lights, two great wax tapers, called 

" Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie bo3^es, 
The Cliristmas log to the firing; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your liearts desiring." 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and kitch- 
ens in England, particularly in the north, and there are sev- 
eral superstitions connected with it among the peasantrj^. If 
a squinting person come to the house while it is burning, or 
A person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand 
remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away to light 
Jie next year's Christmas fire. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 271 

Cliristmas candles, wreathed with greens, were 
placed on a highly-polished beaufet among the 
family plate. The table was abundantly spread 
with substantial fare ; but the Squire made his 
suj3per of frumenty, a dish made of wheat-cake& 
boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a standing 
dish in old times for Christmas eve. 

1 was happy to find my old friend, minced-pie, 
in the retinue of the feast ; and finding him to 
be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be 
ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with 
all the warmth wherewith we usually greet an 
old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly pro- 
moted by the humors of an eccentric personage 
whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed Avith 
the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was 
a tight brisk little man, with the air of an arrant 
old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill 
of a parrot ; his face slightly pitted with the 
small-pox, with a dry perpetual ])loom on it, like 
a frostbitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of 
great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and 
lurking waggery of expression that was irresisti- 
ble. He was evidently the wit of the family, 
dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes 
with the ladies, and making infinite merriment 
by harping upon old themes ; which, unfortunately, 
my ignorance of the family chronicles did not 
permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great 
delight during supper to keep a young girl next 
him m a continual agony of stifled laughter, in 
9pite of her awe of the reproving looks of her 



272 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol 
of the younger part of the company, who laughed 
at everythnig he said or did, and at every turn 
of his countenance ; I could not wonder at it ; for 
he must have been a miracle of accomplishments 
in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy; 
make an old woman of his hand, with the assist- 
ance of a burnt cork and pocket-handkerchief; 
and cut an orange into such a ludicrous carica- 
ture, that the young folks were ready to die with 
hiuofhincr. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank 
Bracebridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small 
mdependent income, which, by careful management, 
was sufficient for all his wants. He revolved 
through the family system like a vagrant comet 
ill its orbit ; sometimes visiting one branch, and 
sometimes another quite remote ; as is often the 
case with gentlemen of extensive connections and 
small fortunes in England. He had a chirping 
buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present 
moment ; and his frequent change of scene and 
company prevented his acquiring those rusty un- 
accommodating habits, with which old bachelors 
are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete 
family clironicle, being versed in the genealogy, 
history, and intermarriages of the whole house of 
Bracebridge, which made him a great favorite 
with the old folks ; he was a beau of all the elder 
ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom 
he was habitually considered rather a young fel- 
low, and he was master of the revels among the 
children ; so that tluire was not a more popular 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 273 

being in the sphere in which he moved than Mr 
Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he had re-t 
sided ahnost entirely with the Squire, to whoni 
lie had become a factotmn, and whom he partic- 
ularly delighted by jumping with his humor iq 
respect to old times, and by having a scrap of aq 
old song to suit every occasion. AVe had pres- 
ently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent ; for 
no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines 
and other beverages peculiar to the season in- 
troduced, than Master Simon was called on for 
a good old Christmas song. He bethought him- 
self for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of 
the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, 
excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, 
like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth 
a quauit old ditty. 

" Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together; 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather," etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety 
and an old harper was summoned from the ser 
vants' hall, where he had been strumming all the 
evening, and to all appearance comforting himself 
with some of the Squire's home-brewed. He 
was a kind of liang(h'-on, I was told, of the es- 
tablishment, and, though ostensibly a resident r>f 
the village, was oftener to be found in the Squire's 
kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman 
being fond of the sound of "harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, 
IS 



274 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a merry one ; some of the older folks joined in 
it, and the Squire himself figured doAvn several 
couple with a partner, with whom he affirmed he 
had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a 
century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a 
kind of connecting link between the old times 
and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated 
in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently 
piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavor- 
ing to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, 
and other graces of the ancient school ; but he 
had unluckily assorted himself with a little romp- 
ing girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild 
vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and 
defeated all his sober attempts at elegance ; — 
such are the ill-assorted matches to which antique 
gentlemen are unfortunately prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led 
out one of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue 
played a thousand little knaveries with impunity : 
he was full of practical jokes, and his delight was 
to tease his aunts and cousins ; y^t, like all mad- 
cap youngsters, he was a universal favorite among 
the women. The most interesting couple in the 
dance was the young officer and a ward of the 
Squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. 
From several shy glances which I had noticed 
in the course of the evening, I suspected there 
was a little kindness growing up bet-ween them : 
and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero 
to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, 
and handsome, and, like most young British offi- 
cers of late years, had picked up various small 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 275 

accomplishments on the continent; — he could 
talk Frcncli and Italian — draw landscapes — sing 
very tolerably — dance divinely ; but, above all, 
he had been wounded at Waterloo : — what girl 
of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, 
could resist such a mirror of chivalry and per- 
fection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up 
a guitar, and, lolling against the old marble fire- 
place, in an attitude which I am half inclined to 
suspect was studied, began the little French air 
of the Troubadour. The Squire, however, ex- 
claimed against having anything on Christmas 
eve but good old English ; upon which the young 
mmstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if 
in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, 
and, with a charming air of gallantry, gave Her- 
rick's " Night-Piece to Julia." 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shootinoj stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
liike tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me, 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I '11' pour into thee. 



276 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

The song might or might not have been in 
tended in compliment to the fair Julia, for so ] 
found his partner was called ; she, however, was 
certainly unconscious of any such application, for 
she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes 
cast upon the floor. Her face was suffused, it 
is true, Avith a beautiful blush, and there was 
a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was 
doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance ; 
indeed, so great was her indifference, that she 
amused herself with plucking to pieces a choice 
bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the 
song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on 
the floor. 

The party now broke up for the niglit with 
the kind-hearted old custom of shaking hands. 
As I passed through the hall, on my way to my 
chamber, the dying embers of the Yule clog still 
sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been the 
season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," I 
should have been half tempted to steal from my 
room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies 
might not be at their revels about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the man- 
sion, the ponderous furniture of which might have 
been fabricated in the days of the giants. The 
room was panelled with cornices of heavy carved 
work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were 
strangely intermingled ; and a row of black-look- 
ing portraits stared mournfully at me from the 
walls. The bed was of rich, though faded dam- 
n,sk, Avith a lofty tester, and stood in a niche op- 
poj^ite a bow- window. I had scarcely got into 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 277 

bed when a strain of music seemed to break forth 
in the air just below the window. I listened^ 
and found it proceeded from a band, which I 
eonckided to be the waits from some neighboring 
village. They went round the house, playing un- 
der the windows. I drew aside the curtains to 
hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell 
through the upper part of the casement, partially 
lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, 
as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and 
seemed to accord with the quiet and moonlight. 
I listened and listened, — they became more and 
more tender and remote, and, as they gradually 
died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and 
I fell asleep. 




278 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 




Dark and dull night, flie hence a-waj, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shome, 
Thus on the sudden? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

>HEN I woke the next morning, It seemed 
^ as if all the events of the preceding even- 
l^ ing had been a dream, and nothing but 
the identity of the ancient chamber convinced 
me of their reality. While I lay musing on my 
pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering 
outside of the door, and a whispering consultation. 
Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth 
au old Clu-istmas carol, the burden of which 
was — 

" Kejoice, oar Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning." 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the 
door suddenly, and beheld one of the most beau- 
tiful little fairy groups that a painter could imag- 
ine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 279 

eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. 
They were going the rounds of the house, and 
singing at every chamber-door; but my sudden 
appearance frightened them into mute bashfuhiess. 
They remained for a moment playing on their 
lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing 
a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, as 
if by one impulse, they scampered away, and as 
they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them 
laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kmd and 
happy feelings in this stronghold of old-fashioned 
hospitality. The window of my chamber looked 
out upon what in summer would have been a 
beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, 
a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract 
of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and 
herds of deer. At a distance was a neat ham- 
let, mtli the smoke from the cottage - chiimieys 
hanging over it ; and a church with its dark spire 
in strong relief against the clear, cold sky. The 
house was surrounded with evergi-eens, according 
to the English custom, which would have given 
almost an appearance of summer ; but the morn- 
ing was extremely frosty; the light vapor of the 
preceding evening had been precipitated by the 
cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of 
grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of 
a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among 
the glittering foliage. A robin, perched upon 
the top of a mountain-ash that hung its clusters 
of red berries just before my window, was basking 
himself in the sunshine, and piping a few qiieru- 



280 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

lous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the 
glories of his train, and strutting with the pride 
and gravity of a Spanish grandee, on the terrace- 
walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant 
appeared to invite me to family prayeis. He 
showed me the way to a small chapel in the old 
wing of the house, where I found the principal 
part of the family already assembled in a kind of 
gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and 
large prayer-books ; the servants were seated on 
benches below. The old gentleman read prayers 
from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master 
Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses ; and 
I must do him the justice to say that he acquitted 
himself with great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, 
which Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed 
from a poem of his favorite author, Herrick ; and 
it had been adapted to an old church-melody by 
Master Simon. As there were several good voices 
among the household, the effect was extremely 
pleasing ; bui I was particularly gratified by the 
exaltation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful 
feeling, with which the worthy Squire delivered 
one stanza ; his eye glistenmg, and his voice raiQ* 
bling out of all the bounds of time and tune : — 

" 'T is thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirth, 
And givest me Wassaile bovvles to drink 

Spiced to the brink: 
Lord, 't is thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land: 
And giv'st me tor my bushell sowne. 

Twice ten for one." 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 5*81 

I afierwards understood that early nxoming ser- 
vice was read on every Sur.day and saints* dar 
throughout the }ear, either by Mr. Bracebridge or 
by some member of the family. It was once al 
most universally the case at the seats of the nobilitv 
and gentry of England, and it is much to be re- 
gretted that the custom is falling into neglect ; foi 
the dullest observer must be sensible of the order 
and serenity prevalent in those households, where 
the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of wor- 
ship in the morning gives, as it were, the key-note 
to every temper for the day, and attunes every 
spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire de- 
nommated true old English fare. He indulged in 
some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts 
of tea and toast, which he censured as among the 
causes of modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and 
the decline of old English heartiness ; and though 
he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of 
his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold 
meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with 
Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. 
Simon, as he was called by everybody but the 
Squire. We were escorted by a number of gentle- 
' manlike dogs, that seemed loungers about the estab- 
lishment, from tlie frisking spaniel to the steady 
old stag-hound, — the last of which was of a race 
that had been in the family time out of mind ; they 
ivere all obedient to a dog-wliistle which hung to 
Master Simon's button-hole, and in the midst of 
their gambols would glance an eye occasionally 
jpon a small switch he carried in his hand. 



282 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look 
in the yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight 
and I could not but feel the force of the Squire's 
idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded bal- 
ustrades, and clipped yew-trees carried with them 
an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to be 
an unusual number of peacocks about the place, 
and I was making some remarks upon what I 
termed a flock of them, that were basking under a 
sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my 
phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that, 
according to the most ancient and approved treatise 
on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. " In 
the same way," added he, with a slight air of ped- 
antry, " we say a flight of doves or swallows, a 
bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, 
a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He 
went on to inform me that, according to Sir An- 
thony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird 
" both understanding and glory ; for, being praised, 
he will presently set up his tail, chiefly against 
the sun, to the intent you may the better behold 
the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, 
when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide him- 
self in corners, till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small 
erudition on so whimsical a subject; but I found 
that the peacocks were birds of some consequence 
at the hall; for Frank Bracebridge informed me 
that they were great favorites with his father, who 
was extremely (Careful to keep up the breed ; partly 
because they belonged to chivalry, and were in 
great request at the stately banquets of the olden 
time, and partly because they had a pomp and 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 288 

ma^ificence about them, highly becoming an old 
family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to 
Bay, had an air of greater state and dignity than a 
peacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade. 
Master Simon had now to huriy off, having an 
appointment at the parish church with the village 
choristers, who were to perform some music of his 
selection. There was something extremely agree- 
able in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the 
little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat sur- 
prised at his apt quotations from authors who cer- 
tainly were not in the range of every-day reading. 
I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Brace- 
bridge, who told me with a smile that Master Si- 
mon's whole stock of erudition was confined to 
some half a dozen old authors, which the Squire 
had put into his hands, and which he read over 
and over, whenever he had *a studious fit ; as he 
sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter 
evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Bock of Hus- 
bandry ; Markham's Country Contentments ; the 
Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, 
Knight ; Izaac Walton's Angler, and two or three 
more such ancient worthies of the pen, were his 
standard authorities ; and, like all men who know 
but a few books, he looked up to them with a kind 
of idolatry^ and quoted them on all occasions. 
As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of 
old books in the Squire's library, and adapted to 
tunes that were popular among the choice spirits 
of the last century. His practical application of 
Bcraps of literature, however, had caused him to 
be looked upon as a prodigy of book-knowledge 



284 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen 
of the neighborhood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant 
tolling of the village-bell, and I was told that the 
Squire was a little particular in having his house- 
liold at church on a Christmas morning ; consid- 
ering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoic- 
ing ; for, as old Tusser observed, 

" At Christmas be merry, and thanlcful withal, 
And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." 

*' If you are disposed to go to church," said 
Frank Bracebridge, " I can promise you a speci- 
men of my cousin Simon's musical achievements. 
As the church is destitute of an organ, he has 
formed a band fi'om the village amateurs, and es- 
tablished a musical club for their improvement; 
he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's 
pack of hounds, according to the directions of 
Jervaise Markham, in his Country Contentments ; 
for the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, sol- 
emn mouths,' and for the tenor the * loud-ringing 
mouths,' among the country bumpkins ; and for 
* sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious taste 
among the prettiest lasses in the neighborhood ; 
though these .last, he affirms, are the most difficult 
to keep in tune ; your pretty female singer being 
exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very li- 
able to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably 
fine and clear, the most of the family walked to the 
church, which was a very old building of gray 
stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile 



CilRIbTMAS DAY. 285 

from the park-gate. Adjoining it was a low snug 
pai-sonage, wliicli seemed coeval with the church 
The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew- 
tree, that had been tniined against its walls, 
through the dense foliage of which, apertures had 
been formed to admit light into the small antique 
lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the 
parson issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, Avell-conditioneJ 
pastor, such as is often found in a snug living in 
the vicinity of a rich patron's table ; but I was 
disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, 
black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was 
too wide, and stood off from each ear ; so that 
his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, 
like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty 
coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would 
have held the church Bible and prayer-book : and 
his small legs seemed still smaller, from being 
planted m large shoes, decorated with enormous 
buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that 
the parson had been a chum of his father's at 
Oxford, and had received this living shortly after 
the latter had come to his estate. He was a 
complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely 
read a work printed in the Roman character. 
The editions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde 
were his dehght ; and he was indefatigable in hia 
reseai'ches after such old English writers as have 
fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In 
deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Brace- 
bridge, he had made diligent investigations into 



286 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the festive rites and holiday customs of former 
times ; and had been as zealous in the inquiry as 
if he had been a boon companion ; but it was 
merely with that plodding spirit with which men 
of adust temperament follow up any track of 
study, merely because it is denominated learning \ 
indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be 
the illustration of the msdom, or of the ribaldry 
and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored ovei 
these old volumes so intensely, that they seemed 
to have been reflected in his countenance ; which, 
if the face be indeed an index of the mind, might 
be compared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church-porch, we found the 
parson rebuking the gray-headed sexton for hav- 
ing used mistletoe among the greens with which 
the church was decorated. It was, he observed, 
an unholy plant, profaned by having been used 
by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and 
though it might be innocently employed in the 
festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it 
had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as 
unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. 
So tenacious was he on tliis point, that the poor 
sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of 
the humble trophies of his taste, before the par- 
son would consent to enter upon the service of 
the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but 
simple ; on the walls were several mural monu- 
ments of the Bracebridges, and just beside the 
altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on 
which lay the efhgy of a warrior in armor, with 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 287 

his legs crossed, a sign of his liaving been a Cm ■ 
sader. I was told it was one of the family who 
had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the 
same whose picture hung over the lu-eplace in the 
hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the 
pew, and repeated the responses very audibly ; 
evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion punct- 
ually observed by a gentleman of the old school, 
and a man of old family connections. I observed, 
too, that he turned over the leaves of a folio 
prayer-book vnih something of a flourish ; possi- 
bly to show off an enormous seal-ring Avhich en- 
riched one of his fingers, and which had the look 
of a family relic. But he was evidently most so- 
licitous about the musical part of the service, keep- 
ing his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beat- 
mg time Avith much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and pre- 
sented a most whimsical grouping of heads, piled 
one above the other, among which I particularly 
noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow 
with a retreating forehead and chin, who played 
on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his 
ftxce to a point ; and there was another, a short 
pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, 
so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald 
head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were 
two or three pretty faces among the female sing- 
ers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning 
had given a bright rosy tint ; but the gentlemen 
choristers had evidently been chosen, like old 
Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks ; and 



288 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

as several had to sing from the same book, there 
were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike 
those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on 
country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed 
tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a 
little behind the instrumental, and some loiteruii; 
fiddler now and then making up for lost time by 
travellhig over a passage with prodigious celerity, 
and clearing more bars than the keenest fox- 
hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial 
was an anthem that had been prepared and ar- 
ranged by Master Simon, and on which he had 
founded great expectation. Unluckily there was 
a blunder at the very outset ; the musicians be- 
came flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; 
everything went on lamely and irregularly until 
they came to a chorus beginning, " Now let us 
sing with one accord," which seemed to be a sig- 
nal for parting company : all became discord and 
confusion; each shifted for himself, and got to 
the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could, 
excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spec- 
tacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous 
nose ; who happened to stand a little apart, and, 
being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a 
quaveruig course, wrigglmg his head, ogling his 
book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at 
least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on 
the rites and ceremonies of Christnias, and the 
propriety of observing it not merely as a day of 
thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting the 



CElRliSTMAS DAY. 289 

correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages 
of the church, luid enforcing them by the author- 
ities of Theophihis of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. 
Chrysostom, St. Augustme, and a cloud more of 
saints and fathers, from whom he made copious 
qmtations. I was a little at a loss to perceive 
the necessity of such a mighty array of forces 
(o maintain a point which no one present seemed 
uiclined to dispute ; but I soon found that the 
good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to 
contend with; having, m the course of his re- 
searches on the subject of Christmas, got com- 
pletely embroiled in the sectarian controversies of 
the Revolution, when the Puritans made such a 
fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the church, 
and poor old Christmas was driven out of the 
land by proclamation of Parliament.* The wor- 
thy parson lived but witli times past, and knew 
but little of the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retire- 
ment of his antiquated little study, the pages of 
old times Avere to him as the gazettes of the day ; 
while the era of the Revolution was mere modern 

* From the " Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, published 
December 24th, 16o2: — "The House spent much time this 
day about the business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at 
sea, and before they rose, Avere presented with a terrible re- 
monstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine 
Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16; 1 Cor, xv. 14, 17; and in honor of 
the Lord's Dav, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. 1 
Rev. i. 10; Psalm cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11; Mark xv. 8; 
Psalm Ixxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti-christ's 
masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who observe it, 
etc. in consequence of which Parliament spent some time 
in consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed 
orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the following day 
which was commonly culled Christmas day." 

ly 



290 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

history. He forgot that nearly two centuries h«Q 
elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince- 
pie throughout the land ; when plum-porridge 
was denounced as " mere popery," and roast-beef 
as anti- Christian ; and that Christmas had been, 
brought in again triumphantly with the merry 
court of King Charles at the Restoration. He 
kindled into warmth with the ardor of his contest, 
and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had 
to combat ; he had a stubborn conflict with old 
Prynne and two or three other forgotten cham- 
pions of the Round Heads on the subject of Christ- 
mas festivity ; and concluded by urging his hear- 
ers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to 
stand to the traditional customs of their fathers, 
and feast and make merry on this joyful anniver- 
sary of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended ap- 
parently with more immediate effects ; for on 
leaving the cliunth the congregation seemed one 
and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so 
earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder 
folks gathered in knots, in the churchyard, greet- 
ing and shaking hands; and the children ran 
about crying Ule ! Ule ! and repeating some un- 
couth rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined 
us, informed me had been handed down from 
days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to 
the Squire a§ he passed, givhig him the good 
Irishes of the season with every appearance o'' 

»"Ule! Ule! 

Three puddings in a pule; 
Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 



CTIR/STMAS DAY. 201 

heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the 
hall, to take something to keep out the cold of the 
weather ; and I heard blessings uttered by sev 
eral of the poor, which convinced me that, in the 
midst of his enjoyments, tlie Avorthy old cavalier 
had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue ol 
charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed over- 
flowed with generous and happy feelings. As we 
passed over a rising ground which commanded 
something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic mer- 
riment now and then reached our ears : the Squire 
paused for a few moments, and looked aroiuid 
with an air of inexpressible benignity. The 
beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to in- 
spire philanthropy. Not\vitlistanding the frosti- 
ness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless 
journey had acquired sufficient power to melt 
away the thin covering of snow from every 
southern declivity, and to bring out the living 
green which adorns an English landscape even in 
midwinter. Large tracts of smiling verdure con- 
trasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded 
slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on 
which the broad rays rested, yielded its silver 
rill of cold and limpid water, glittering through 
the dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhalations 
to contril ute to the thin haze that hung just 
above the surface of the earth. There was some- 
thing truly cheering in this triumph of warmth 
and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter ; 
it was, as the Squire observed, an emblem of 
Christmas hospitality, breaking through the chills 



202 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing every 
heart into a How. He pointed with pleasure to 
the indications of good cheer reeking from the 
cihimnevs of the comfortable farm-houses and low 
thatched cottages. " I love," said he, " to see 
this day well kept by rich and poor ; it is a great 
diing to have one day in the year, at least, when 
you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, 
and of having, as it were, the world all tlirown 
open to you ; and I am almost disposed to join 
with Poor Robin, in his malediction on every 
churlish enemy to this honest festival, — 

" Those who at Christmas do repine 

And would fiiin hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphr}' dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." 

The Squire went on to lament the deplorable 
decay of the games and amusements which were 
once prevalent at this season among the lower 
orders, and countenanced by the higher ; when 
the old halls of the castles and manor-houses 
were thrown open at daylight ; when the tables 
were covered with brawn, and beef, and humming 
ale ; when the harp and the carol resounded all day 
long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome 
to enter and make merry.* " Our old games and 

* "An Enj^lish gentleman, at the opening of the great day, 
1. e on Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and 
neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. The strong bear was 
broached, and the black-jacks went plentifully about with 
toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The 
Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, oi 
else two 3'oung men must take the maiden {i. e. the cook) b^ 
»he arms, and run her roinid the market-place till she i8 
•hamed of her laziness."— Ruu/id about our Sea- Coal Fire. 



CnKlSlWJAS DAY. 293 

local customs," said ho, " had a great effect in 
making the peasant fond of his home, and the 
promotion of them by the gentry made him fond 
of his lord. They made the times merrier, and 
kinder, and better, and I can truly say, with one 
of our old poets, — 

" ' I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
Tliat seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honest}'-.' 

" The nation," continued he, " is altered ; vre 
have almost lost our simple true-hearted peas- 
antry. They have broken asunder from the 
higher classes, and seem to think their interests are 
separate. They have become too knowing, and 
begin to read newspapers, listen to ale-house pol- 
iticians, and talk of reform. I think one mode to 
keep them in good-humor in these hard times 
would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more 
time on their estates, mingle more among the 
coimtry people, and set the merry old English 
games going again." 

Such was the good Squire's project for mitigat- 
ing public discontent : and, indeed, he had once 
attempted to put his doctrine in practice, and a 
few years before had kept open house during the 
holidays in the old style. The country people, 
however, did not understand how to play their 
parts in the scene of hospitality ; many uncouth 
circumstances occurred ; the manor Avas overrun 
by all the vagrants of the country, and more beg- 
gars drawn into the neighborhood in one week 
*han the parish officers could get rid of in a yeiir 



%^4: mi: SKETCH-BOOK. 

Sir.t>e tnen^ Ae aad contented himself with invit- 
ing the decent part of the neighboring peasantry 
to call ai me fmll on Christmas day, and with 
distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the 
poor, that they migni. make merry in 'their own 
dwellings. 

We had not been iutig home when the sound 
of music was heard from a distance. A band of 
country lads, without cot«.u, their shirt-sleeves 
fancifully tied with ribbons, iheir hats decorated 
with greens, and clubs in ihcir hands, was seen 
advancing up the avenae, tollowed by a large 
number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped 
before the hall-door, where the music struck up 
a peculiar air, and the lads pertormed a curious 
and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and 
striking their clubs together, keeping exact time 
to the music ; while one, whimsically crowned 
with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down 
his back, kept capering round the skirts of the 
dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many 
antic gesticulations. 

The Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with 
great interest and delight, and gave me a full ac- 
count of its origin, which he traced to the times 
when the Romans held possession of the island ; 
plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant 
of the sword-dance of the ancients. " It was 
now," he said, " nearly extinct, but he had acci- 
dentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, 
and had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell 
the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by the 
rough cudgel play, ai\d broken heads in th^ ovea- 
ing." 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 295 

After the dance was concluded, tlie whole party 
ivas entertained with braAvn and beef, and stout 
home-brewed. The Squire himself mingled among 
the rustics, and was received with awkward dem- 
onstrations of deference and regard. It is true I 
perceived two or three of tlie younger peasants, as 
they wci-e raising their tankards to their mouths, 
when the Squire's back was turned, making some- 
thing of a grimace, and giving each other the 
wink ; but the moment they cauglit my eye they 
pidled grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. 
With Master Simon, however, they all seemed 
more at their ease. His varied occupations and 
amusements had made him well known through- 
out the neighborhood. Pie was a visitor at every 
farm-house and cottage ; gossiped with the farmers 
and their wives ; romped with their daughters ; 
and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the bum- 
blebee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of 
the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way 
before good cheer and affability. There is some- 
thing genuine and affectionate in the gayety of 
the lower orders, when it is excited by the boimty 
and familiarity of tliose above them ; the warm 
glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a 
kind word or a small pleasantry frankly utterea 
by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependent 
more than oil and wine. When the Squire had 
retired, the merriment increased, and there was 
much joking and laughter, particularly between 
Master Simon and a hale, ruddy -faced, white^ 
headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the 



296 



THE SKETCiI-BOOK. 



village ; for I observed all his companions to waiit 
with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a 
gi'atuitous laugh before they could well understand 
them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to 
merriment : as I passed to my room to dress for 
dinner, I heard the sound of music in a small court, 
and, looking through a window that commanded 
it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with 
pandean pipes and tambourine ; a pretty coquettish 
housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country 
lad, while several of the other servants were look- 
ing on. In the midst of her sport the girl caught 
a glimpse of my face at the window, and, coloring 
up, ran off with an aii' of roguish affected coafa 

BIOIL 




THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. WJ 



THE CHRISTIVIAS DINNER. 




Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast! 

Let every man be joliy, 
Eache roonie with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neij^hbours' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke, 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee 'le bury 't in a Christmas pj'e. 
And evermore be merry. 

WiTHEEs's Juvenilia. 

HAD finished my toilet, and was loiter- 
ing with Frank Bracebridge in the li- 
brary, when we heard a distant thwack- 
ing sound, which he informed me was a sisTial for 
the serving up of the dinner. The Squire kept up 
old customs in kitchen as well as hall ; ami the 
rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, 
summoned the servants to carry in the meats, 

" Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
March'd boldly up, like our train band. 
Presented, and away." * 

The dinner was served up in the great hall 
irhere the Squire always held his Christmas ban 

* Sir John Suckling. 



298 THE SKETCH- BOOK. 

quet. A blazing, crackling iire of logs had been 
heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and 
the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the 
wide-mouthed chimney. The great picture of the 
crusader and his white horse had been profuselj* 
decorated with greens for the occasion ; and holly 
and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the 
helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, whicli 
1 understood were the arms of the same warrior. 
I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts about 
the authenticity of the painting and armor as hav- 
ing belonged to the crusader, they certainly hav- 
ing the stamp of more recent days ; but I was told 
that the painting had been so considered time out 
of mind ; and tliat, as to the armor, it had been 
found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present 
situation by the Squire, who at once determined it 
to be the armor of the family hero ; and as he 
was absolute authority on all such subjects in his 
own household, the matter had passed into current 
acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under 
this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of 
plate that might have vied (at least in variety) with 
Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the temple : 
" flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and 
ewers ; " the gorgeous utensils of good companion- 
ship that had gradually accumulated through many 
generations of jovial housekeepers. Before these 
stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars 
(if the first magnitude ; other lights were distrib- 
uted in branches, and the whole array glittered 
like a firmament of silver. 

"We were ushered into this banqueting scene 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 2W 

with tlie sound of minstrelsy, the old hai-per being 
Beated on a stool beside the fireplace, and twanging 
his instrument with a vast deal more power than 
melody. Never did Christmas board display a 
more goodly and gracious assemblage of counte- 
nances ; those who were not handsome were, at 
!east, happy; and happiness is a rare improver 
of your hard-favored visage. I always consider 
an old English family as well worth studying as 
a collection of Holbein's portraits or Albert DUrer's 
prints. There is much antiquarian lore to be 
acquired ; much knowledge of the physiognomies 
of former times. Perhaps it may be from having 
continually before their eyes those rows of old 
family portraits, with which the mansions of this 
country are stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint 
features of antiquity are often most faithfully per- 
petuated in these ancient lines ; and I have traced 
an old family nose through a whole picture gallery, 
legitimately handed down from generation to gen- 
eration, almost from the time of the Conquest. 
Something of the kind was to be observed in the 
worthy company around me. Many of their faces 
had evidently originated in a Gothic age, and been 
merely copied by succeeding generations; and 
there was one little girl in particular, of staid de- 
meanor, with a high Roman nose, and an antique 
vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the 
Squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, 
and the very counterpart of one of his ancestors 
who figured in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short 
fiimiliar one, such as is commonly addressed to the 



300 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Deity in these unceremonious days ; but a long 
courtly, well- worded one of the ancient school 
There was now a pause, as if something was ex 
pected ; when suddenly the butler entered the hall 
with some degree of bustle : he was attended by a 
servant on each side with a large wax-light, and 
bore a silver dish, on. which was an enormous pig'a 
liead, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its 
mouth, which was placed with great formality at 
the head of the table. The moment this pageant 
made its appearance, the harper struck up a flour- 
ish ; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, 
on receiving a hint from the Squire, gave, with an 
air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the first 
verse of which was as follows : — 

" Caput apri defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's -head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merrily 

Qui estis in convivio." 

Though prepared to witness many of these little 
eccentricities, from being apprised of the peculiar 
hobby of mine host, yet, I confess, the parade with 
which so odd a dish was introduced somewhat per- 
plexed me, until I gathered from the conversation 
of the Squire and the parson, that it was meant to 
represent the bringing in of the boar's head : a dish 
formerly served up with much ceremony and the 
Bound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables, on 
Christmas day. " I like the old custom," said the 
Squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleas- 
ing in itself, but because it was observed at the 
toUege at Oxford at which 1 was educated. Wheu 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 301 

1 hear the old song chained, it brings to mind the 
time when I was young and gamesome, — and the 
noble old college-hall, — and my fellow-studcnte 
loitering about in their black gowns ; many of 
whom, poor lads, are now in their graves ! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not 
haunted by such associations, and who was always 
moi*e taken up with the text than the sentiment, 
objected to the Oxonian's version of the carol ; 
wliich he affirmed was different from that sung at 
college. He went on, with the dry perseverance 
of a commentator, to give the college readmg, ac- 
companied by sundry annotations ; addressing him- 
self at first to the company at large ; but finding 
their attention gradually diverted to other talk and 
other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of 
auditors diminished, until he concluded his remarks 
in an undervoice, to a fat-headed old gentleman 
next him, who was silently engaged in the discus- 
sion of a huge plateful of turkey.* 

* The old ceremon}'- of serving up the boar's head on Christ- 
mas day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Ox- 
ford. Iwas favored by the parson with a copy of the carol as 
now sung, and, as It may be acceptable to such of my readers 
as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it 
entire. 

" The boar's head in hand-bear I, 
Bedeck' d with bays and rosemary; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 
Caput apri defero, 
Reddens laudes domino. 

* The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garlaud 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 



8(/2 THE SKETCH-BO OK. 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer 
and presented an epitome of country abundance, in 
this season of overflowing larders. A distinguished 
post was allotted to " ancient sirloin," as mine host 
termed it ; being, as he added, " the standard of 
old English hospitality, and a joint of goodly pres- 
ence, and full of expectation." There were several 
dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently 
something traditional in their embellishments ; but 
about which, as I did not like to appear over-curi- 
ous, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnifi- 
cently decorated Avith peacock's feathers, in imita 
tion of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a 
considerable tract of the table. This, the Squire 
confessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheas- 
ant-pie, though a peacock-pie Avas certainly the 
most authentical ; but there had been such a mor- 
tality among the peacocks this season, that he could 
not prevail upon himself to have one killed.* 

" Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero," 

etc., etc., etc. 

♦ The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately 
entertainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one 
end of whicli the head appeared above the crust in all its 
plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at the other end the tail 
was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn ban- 
quets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to 
.indertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient 
oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmaa 
feast; and Massinger, in his "City Madam," gives some idea 
of the extravagance with which this, as we)i as other dishfs, 
iras prepared for the gorgeous revels of the plden times: — 



THE Cn HI ST MAS DINNER. 303 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser read- 
ers, who may not have that foolish fondness for 
Ddd and obsolete things to whieli I am a little giv- 
en, were I to mention the other makeshifts of this 
worthy old humorist, by wliicli he was endeavor- 
ing to follow up, though at humble distance, the 
quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, how- 
ever, to see the respect sliown to his whims by his 
cliildren and relatives ; who, indeed, entered read- 
ily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well 
versed in their parts ; having doubtless been pres- 
ent at many a rehearsal. 1 was amused, too, at 
the air of profound gravity with which the butler 
and other servants executed the duties assigned 
them, however eccentric. They had an old-fash- 
iotied look ; having, for the most part, been brought 
up in the household, and grown into keeping with 
the antiquated mansion, and the humors of its lord ; 
and most probably looked upon all his whimsical 
regulations as the established laws of honorable 
housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, tlie butler brought 
in a huge silver vessel of rare and curious work- 
manship, which he placed before the Squire. Its 
appearance Avas hailed with acclamation ; being 
the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festiv- 
ity. The contents had been prepared by the Squire 
himself; for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture 
of which he particularly prided himself: alleging 

"Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 

'■•Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' 
tongues ; 

"Tlieir pheasants drench'd with ambergris; the carcases of 
three fat w^thtrs ruined fur yraiy to 'nake sauce for a sintjU 
peaccck.^^ 



304 TUE SKETCn-BOOK. 

that it was too abstruse and complex for the licrr 
preiiensioii of an ordinary servant. It was a pota- 
tion, indeed, that might well make the heart of s 
toper leap within him ; being composed of the 
richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweet- 
ened, with roasted apples bobbing about the sur- 
face.* 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed 
with a serene look of indwelling delight, as ho 
fcitirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to his 
lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all 
present, he sent it brimming round the board, for 
every one to follow his example, according to the 
primitive style ; pronouncing it " the ancient foun- 
tain of good feeling, where all hearts met togeth- 
er." t 

There was much laughing and rallying as the 
honest emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, 
and was kissed ratlier coyly by the ladies. When 
it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both hands, 

* The Wassail Bowl was somotimes composed of ale instead 
of wine; with nutmes?, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs: 
ill this way the nut-brown beverage is still pre lared in some 
old families, and round the hearths of substant al farmers at 
Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated 
by Herrick in his " Twelfth Night": — 

'' Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 

With store of ale too; 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger." 

•f " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place 
♦o each having his cup. When the steward came to the doora 
wiih the Wassel, he was to cry three times, Wassel, Was$el^ 
Wa»$el, and then the chappell (cliaplein) was to answer with 

ft song." — AKCH,liOL,0(ilA. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 305 

and with tlie air of a boon companion struck up an 
old "Wassail chanson. 

" The brown bowle, 
Tlie merry brown bowle, 
As it goes round about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

" The deep canne, 
The merry deep canne, 
As thou dost freely quaff-a, 
Sing 
Fling, 
Be as merry as a king. 
And sound a lust}' laugh-a." • 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned 
upon family topics, to which I was a stranger. 
There was, however, a great deal of rallying of 
Master Simon about some gay widow, with whom 
he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack 
was commenced by tlie ladies ; but it was contin- 
ued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old 
gentleman next the parson, with the persevering 
assiduity of a slow hound ; being one of those long- 
winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting 
game, are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it 
do^^^l. At every pause in the general conversa- 
tion, he renewed his bantering in pretty much tho 
same terms ; winking hard at me with both eyes, 
whenever he gave Master Simon what he consid- 
ered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed 
fond of being teased on the subject, as old bache- 
lors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform 
me, ir an undertone, that the lady in question was 
* From Poor Robin's Almanac. 
20 



806 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

a prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own 
curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of in- 
nocent hilarity, and, though the old hall may have 
resounded in its time with many a scene of broader 
rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever wit- 
nessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How 
easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleas • 
ure around him ; and how truly is a kind heart a 
fountain of gladness, making everything in its vi- 
cinity to freshen into smiles ! the joyous disposition 
of the worthy Squire was perfectly contagious ; he 
was happy himself, and disposed to make all the 
world happy ; and the little eccentricities of his 
humor did but season, in a manner, the sweetness 
of his philanthropy. 

Wlien the ladies had retired, the conversation, 
as usual, became still more animated ; many good 
things were broached which had been thought of 
during dinner, but which would not exactly do for 
a lady's ear ; and though I cannot positively affirm 
that there was much wit uttered, yet I have cer- 
tainly heard many contests of rare wit produce 
much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty 
tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for 
some stomachs ; but honest good-humor is the oil 
and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jo- 
vial companionship equal to that where the jokes 
are rather small, and the laughter abundant. 

The Squire told several long stories of early col* 
lege pranks and adventures, in some of which 
the parson had been a sharer ; though in looking at 
the latter, it required some effort of imagination \o 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER, 307 

figure sucli a little dark anatomy of a man into the 
perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two 
college chums presented pictures of what men may 
be made by their different lots in life. The 
Squire had left the university to live lustily on liia 
paternal domams, in the vigorous enjoyment of 
prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to 
a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor par- 
son, on the contrary, had dried and withered away, 
among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows of 
his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of 
almost extinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the 
bottom of his soul ; and as the Squire hinted at a 
sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, 
whom they once met on the banks of the Isis, the 
old gentleman made an " alphabet of faces," which, 
as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily 
believe was indicative of laughter ; — indeed, I 
have rarely met with an old geatleraan that took 
absolute offence at the imputed gallantries of his 
youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gain- 
ing on the dry land of sober judgment. The com- 
pany grew merrier and louder as their jokes grew 
duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a hu- 
mor as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his old 
songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he be- 
gan to talk maudlin about the vndow. He even 
gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, 
which he informed me he had gathered fi'om an 
excellent black-letter work, entitled " Cupid's So- 
licitor for Love," containing store of good advice 
^or bachelors, and which he promised to lend me« 
The first verse was to this effect : — 



308 THE SKETCH-BO OK. 

" He that will woo a widow must not dally, 

He must make hay while the sun tkth shine; 
He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I? 
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine." 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, 
who made several attempts to tell a rather broad 
story out of Joe Miller, that was pat to the pur- 
pose; but he always stuck in the middle, every- 
body recollecting the latter part excepting himself. 
The parson, too, began to show the effects of good 
cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, 
and liis wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. 
Just at this juncture we were summoned to the 
drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private insti- 
gation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always 
tempered with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner-table was removed, the hall 
was given up to the younger members of the fam- 
ily, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by 
the Oxoniaii and Master Simon, made its old walls 
ring with their merriment, as they played at romp- 
ing games. I delight in witnessing the gambols 
of children, and pai-ticularly at this happy holiday 
season, and could not help stealing out of the 
drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of 
laughter. I found them at the game of bUnd- 
man's-bufF. Master Simon, who was the leader 
of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to ful- 
fil the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord 
of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. 

* "At Christmasse there was in the Kinge s house, ■where- 
soever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie 
disportes, and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman 
of lionor, or good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall.' 
— Stowe. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 30^ 

The little beings were as busy about him as the 
mock fairies about Falstaff; pinching him, pluck 
ing at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with 
straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thir- 
teen, with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confu- 
sion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn 
off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, 
was the chief tormentor; and, from the slyness 
with which Master Simon avoided the smaller 
game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in cor- 
ners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, 
I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more 
blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found 
the company seated round the fire, listening to the 
parson, who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed 
oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of 
yore, which had been brought from the library for 
his particular accommodation. From this vener- 
able piece of furniture, with which his shadowy 
figure and dark weazen face so admirably accord- 
ed, he was dealing out strange accounts of the 
popular superstitions aiid legends of the surround- 
ing country, with which he had become acquaint- 
ed in the course of his antiquarian researches. I 
am half inclined to think that the old gentleman 
was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition^ 
as men are very apt to be who live a recluse and 
studious life in a sequestered part of the country, 
and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled 
with the marvellous and supernatural. He gave 
as several anecdotes of the fancies of the neigh* 
boring peasantry, concerning the Q^gy of the era 



810 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

Bader, which lay on the tomb bj the church-altar. 
As it was the only monument of the kind in that 
part of the country, it had always been regarded 
with feelings of superstition by the good wives of 
the village. It was said to get up from the torab 
and walk the rounds of the churchyard in stormy 
nights, particulai-ly when it thundered ; and one 
old woman, whose cottage bordered on the oliurch 
yard, had seen it through the windows of the 
church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up 
and doA\ai the aisles. It was the belief that some 
wi'ong had been left unredressed by the deceased, 
or some treasure liidden, which kept the spirit in 
a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked 
of gold and jewels buried m the tomb, over which 
the spectre kept watch ; and there was a story 
cuiTent of a sexton in old times, who endeavored 
to break his way to the coffin at night, but, just 
as he reached it, received a violent blow fi'om the 
marble hand of the Q^^^-, which stretched him 
senseless on the pavement. These tales were 
often laughed at by some of the sturdier among 
the lustics, yet, when night came on, there were 
many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of 
venturing alone in the footpath that led across the 
churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, 
the crusader appeared to be the favorite hero of 
ghost-stories throughout the vicinity. His pict- 
ure, which hmig up in the hall, was thought by 
the servants to have something supernatural about 
(t ; for they remarked tliat, in whatever part of 
the hall you went, the eyes of the wari-ior were 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 31\ 

Still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at 
the lodge, who had been born and brought up in 
the family, and was a great gossip among the 
maid-servants, affirmed, that in her young days 
she had often heard say, that on Midsummer eve, 
when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, gob- 
lins, and fairies become visible and walk abroad, 
tlie crusader used to mount his horse, come down 
from his picture, ride about the house, down the 
avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb; 
on which occasion the church - door most civilly 
swung open of itself; not that he needed it, for 
he rode through closed gates and even stone walls, 
and had been seen by one of the dairy-maids to 
pass between two bars of the great park -gate, 
making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very 
much countenanced by the Squu-e, who, though 
not superstitious himself, wiis very fond of seeing 
others so. He listened to every goblin-tale of 
the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and 
held the porter's wife in high fiivor on account of 
her talent for the marvellous. He was himself a 
great reader of old legends and romances, and of- 
ten lamented that he could not believe in them ; 
for a superstitious person, he thought, must live 
in a kind of fairy land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's 
stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst 
of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, in which 
were mingled something like the clang of rude 
minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small Toices 
and gii'lish laughter. The door suddenly flew 



512 THE SKETCH- DO OK. 

open, and a train came trooping into the room,, 
that miglit almost have been mistaken for the 
breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefat- 
igable spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful dis- 
charge of his duties as lord of misrule, had con- 
ceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or mask* 
iug ; and having called in to his assistance the 
Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally 
I'ipe for anything that should occasion romping and 
merriment, they had carried it into instant effect. 
The pld housekeeper had been consulted ; the 
antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged, 
and made to yield up the relics of finery that had 
not seen the light for several generations ; the 
younger part of the company had been privately 
convened from the parlor and hall, and the whole 
had been bedizened out, into a burlesque imitation 
of an antique mask.* 

Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient Christ- 
mas," quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, 
which had veiy much the aspect of one of the old 
housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might 
have served for a village steeple, and must indubi- 
tably have figured in the days of the Covenanters. 
From under this his nose curved boldly forth, 
flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed the 
very trophy of a December blast. He was ac- 
companied by the blue-eyed romp, dished np as 

* Maskings or mummenes were favorite sports at Chriat- 
mas in old times; and the wardrobes at halb and manor- 
houses were often laid under contribution to furnish dresses 
»nd fantastic di?guisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon 
to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's " Masque of 
Christmas." 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 318 

" Dame IMInce Pie," in the venerable magnificencf 
of a faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat 
and high-heeled shoes. The young officer ap. 
peared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of Ken 
dal green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony 
to deep research, and there was an evident eye to 
the picturesque, natural to a young gallant in the 
presence of his mistress. The fair Julia hung on 
his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as " Maid Ma- 
rian." The rest of the train had been metamor- 
phosed in various ways : the girls trussed up in the 
finery of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge Une, 
and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and 
gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and 
full-bottomed wigs, to represent the character of 
R-oast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies 
celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was 
under the control of the Oxonian, in the appro- 
priate character of Misrule ; and I observed that 
he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his 
wand over the smaller personages of the pageant. 

The irruption of his motley crew, witli beat of 
drum, according to ancient custom, was the con- 
summation of uproar and merriment. Master Si- 
mon covered himself with glory by the stateliness 
with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a 
minuet with the peerless, though giggling. Dame 
Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all 
the characters, which, from its medley of costumes, 
Beemed as tliough the old family portraits had 
skipped down from their frames to join in the 
iport. different centuries were figuring at cross 



814 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

hands and right and left ; the dark ages were cnt^ 
ting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and the days of 
Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, 
through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy Squire contemplated these fantastic 
sports, and this resurrection of his old wardrobe,, 
with the simple relish of childish delight. He stood 
chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely 
hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding 
that the latter was discoursing most authentically 
on the ancient and stately dance at the Paon, or 
peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to 
be derived.* For my part, I was in a continual 
excitement from the varied scenes of whim and 
innocent gayety passing before me. It was in- 
spirmg to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted 
hospitality breaking out from among the chills 
and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off 
his apathy, and catching once more the freshness 
of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in 
the scene, from the consideration that these fleet- 
ing customs were posting fast into oblivion, and 
that this was, perhaps, the only family in England 
in which the whole of them was still punctiliously 
observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled 
with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest: 
it was suited to the time and place; and as the 
old manor-house almost reeled with mirth and 

* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pa- 
von, fi'om pavo^ a peacock, says: "It is a grave and majestic 
dance; the method of dancing it anciently was by gent.e- 
men dressed with caps and swords, b}' those of the long rooe 
fn their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies 
in gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing 
icijembled that of a peacock." — History of Music. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 316 

wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of 
long departed years.* 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it 
is time for me to pause in this garrulity. Me- 
thinks I hear the questions asked by my graver 
readers, " To what purpose is all this ; how is 
the world to be made wiser by this talk ? " Alas ! 
is there not wisdom enough extant for the instiTic- 
tion of the world ? And if not, are there not 
thousands of abler pens laboring for its improve- 
ment ? — It is so much pleasanter to please than 
to instruct, — to play the companion rather than 
the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I 
could throw mto the mass of knowledge ; or how 
am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe 
guides for the opinions of others ? But in writ- 
ing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in ray owe 
disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky 
chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle 
from tlie brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart 
of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then 
penetrate through the gathering film of misanthro- 
py, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, 
and make my reader more in good-humor with his 
fellow-beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall 
not then have written entirely m vain. 

* At the time of the tirst publication of this paper, the pict- 
ure of an old-fashioned Christmas in the country was pro- 
nounced b}' some as out of date. The author had afterwards 
an opportunity of witiiesying almost all the customs above 
described, existiivfi^ in unexpected vig-or in the skirts of Derby- 
shire and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christinas holidays. 
The rea<ler will tind some notice of them in the author's ac- 
count of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 



B16 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 




1 do walk 

Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, 
Stealing; to set the town o' fire ; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 
Or Kobin Goodfellow. — Flktchek. 

AM somewhat of an antlqnity-hunttr 
and am fond of exploring London in quest 
of the relics of old times. These are 
principally to be found in the depths of the city, 
swallowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of 
brick and mortar ; but deriving poetical and roman- 
tic interest from the commonplace prosaic world 
around them. I was struck with an instance of 
the kind in the course of a recent summer ramble 
into the city ; for the city is only to be explored 
to advantage in summer time, when free from 
the smoke and fog, and rain and mud of winter. 
I had been buffeting for some time against the 
current of population setting through Fleet Street. 
The warm weather had unstrung my nerves, and 
made me sensitive to every jar and jostle and dis- 
cordant sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit 
faint, and I was getting out of humor with the 
oustling busy throng through which I had to 
struggle, when in a fit of desperation I tore my 
way through the crowd, plunged into a by-lane, 
^nd after passing through several obscure nooks 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 317 

and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court 
with a grass-plot in the centre, overhung by elms, 
and kept perpetually fresh and green by a foun- 
tain with its sparkling jet of water, A student, 
with book in hand, was seated on a stone bench, 
partly reading, partly meditating on the move- 
mrnts of two or three trim nursery maids with 
their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come 
upon an oasis amid the panting sterility of the 
desert. By degrees the quiet and coolness of the 
place soothed my nerves and refreshed my spirit. 
I pursued my walk, and came, hard by, to a very 
ancient chapel, with a low - browed Saxon portal 
of massive and rich architecture. The interior 
was circular and lofty, and lighted from above._ 
Around were monumental tombs of ancient date, 
on which were extended the marble effigies of 
warriors m armor. Some had the hands de- 
voutly crossed upon the breast; others grasped 
the pommel of the sword, menacing hostility even 
in the tomb ! — while the crossed legs of several 
indicated soldiers of the Faith who had been on 
crusades to the Holy Land. I was, in fact, in 
the chapel of the Knights Templars, strangely sit- 
uated in the very centre of sordid traffic ; and I 
do not know a more impressive lesson for the 
man of the world than thus suddenly to turij 
aside from the highway of busy money-seeking 
life, and sit down among these shadowy sepul- 
chres, where all is twilight, dust, and forge tfulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation, I encoun- 
tered another of these relics of a " foregone world '' 



818 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

locked up in the heart of the city. I had been 
wandering for some time through dull monotonous 
streets, destitute of anything to strike the eye or 
excite the imagination, when I beheld before me 
a Gothic gateway of mouldering antiquity. It 
opened into a spacious quadrangle forming tho 
court-yard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of 
which stood invitingly open. It was apparently 
a public edifice, and as I was antiquity hunting, 
I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meet- 
ing no one either to oppose or rebuke my intm 
sion, I continued on until I found myself in a 
great hall, with a lofty arched roof and oaken gal- 
lery, all of Gothic architecture. At one end of 
the hall was an enormous fireplace, with wooden 
settles on each side ; at the other end was a raised 
platform, or dais, the seat of state, above which 
was the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a 
long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic 
quiet and seclusion, and what gave it a mysteri- 
ous charm, was, that I had not met with a human 
being since I had passed the threshold. Encour- 
aged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess 
of a large bow-window, which admitted a broad 
flood of yellow sunshine, checkered here and there 
by tints from panes of colored glass ; while an 
open casement let in the soft summer air. Here, 
leaning my head on my hand, and my arm on an 
old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of reverie 
about what might have been the ancient uses of 
this edifice. It had evidently been of monastic 
origin ; perhaps one of those collegiate establish- 



LONJ)Oi\ ANTIUUKS. 3)9 

mcnts built of yore for the promotion of learning, 
where the patient monk, in tlie ample solitude of 
the cloister, added page to page and volume to 
volume, emulating in the prodfictions of his brain 
the magnitude of the pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small 
panelled door in an arch at the upper end of the 
hall was opened, and a ninnber of gray-headed old 
men, clad in long black cloaks, came forth one by 
one : proceeding in that maimer thi'ough the hall, 
without uttering a Avord, each turning a pale face 
on me as he passed, and disappearing through a 
door at the lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their appearance ; 
their black cloaks and antiquated air comported 
with the style of this most venerable and myste- 
rious pile. It was as if the ghosts of the departed 
years, about which I had been musing, were pass- 
ing in review before me. Pleasing myself with 
such fancies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, 
to explore what I pictured to myself a realm of 
shadows, existing in the very centre of substantial 
realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of inte- 
rior courts, and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, 
for the main edifice had many additions and de- 
pendencies, built at various times and in various 
styles ; in one open space a number of boys, who 
evidently belonged to the establishment, were at 
their sports ; but everywhere I observed those mys- 
terious old gray men in black mantles, sometimes 
Bauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups : 
they appeared to be the pervading genii of the 



820 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

place. I now called to mind what I had read of 
certain colleges in old times, where judicial astrol- 
ogy, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbi'aden 
and magical scien(5es were tanglit. Was this an 
establishment of the kind, and were these black- 
cloaked old men really professors of the black art ? 

These surmises were passing through my mind 
as my eye glanced into a chamber, hung round 
with all kinds of strange and uncouth objects : im- 
plements of savage warfare ; strange idols and 
stutFed alligators; bottled serpents and monsters 
decorated the mantel-piece ; while on the high 
tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned a hu- 
man skull, flanked on each side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly thir 
mystic chamber, which seemed a fitting labora- 
tory for a necromancer, when I was startled at 
beholding a human countenance staring at me 
from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, 
shrivelled old man, with thin cheeks, bright eyes, 
and gray wiry projecting eyebrows. I at first 
doubted whether it were not a mummy curiously 
preserved, but it moved, and I saw that it was 
alive. It was another of these black-cloaked old 
men, and, as I regarded his quamt physiognomy, 
his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister 
objects by which he was surrounded, I began to 
persuade myself that I had come upon the arch 
mago, who ruled over this magical fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose 
ani invited me to enter. I obeyed, with singular 
hardihood, for how did I know whether a wave 
of his wand might not metamorphose me into 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 821 

some strange monster, or conjure me into one of 
the bottles on his mantel-piece ? He proved, 
however, to be anything but a conjurer, and his 
simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and 
mystery ^wi\\ which I had enveloped this anti- 
i^uated pile and its no less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the 
oentre of an ancient asylum for superannuated 
tradesmen and decayed householders, with which 
was connected a school for a limited number of 
boys. It was founded upwards of two centuries 
since on an old monastic estaolishment, and re- 
tained somewhat of the conventual air and char- 
acter. The shadowy line ot old men in black 
mantles who had passed betore me in the hall, 
and whom I had elevated into magi, turned out 
to be the pensioners returning from morning ser- 
vice in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, 
whom I had made the arch magician, had been 
for six years a resident of the place, and had dec- 
orated this final nestling-place of his old age with 
relics and rarities picked up in the course of his 
life. According to his owti account he had been 
somewhat of a traveller; having been once \i\ 
France, and very near making a visit to Holland. 
He regretted not having visited the latter country, 
" as then he might have said he had been there." 
He was evidently a traveller of the simplest kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions ; keep- 
ing aloof, as I found, from the ordinary run of 
pensioners. His chief associates were a blind 
man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both which 

21 



822 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant and 
a broken-down gentleman who had run through a 
fortune of forty thousand pounds left him by his 
father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage 
portion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to 
consider it an indubitable sign of gentle blood as 
well as of lofty spirit to be able to squander such 
enormous sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times 
into which I have thus beguiled the reader is what 
is called the Charter House, originally the Char- 
treuse. It was founded in 1611, on the remains 
of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, 
being one of those noble charities set on foot by 
individual munificence, and kept up with the 
quaintness and sanctity of ancient times amidst 
the modern changes and innovations of London. 
Here eighty broken-down men, who had seen bet- 
ter days, are provided, in their old age, with food, 
clothing, fuel, and a yearly allowance for private 
expenses. They dine together as did the monks 
of old, in the hall which had been the refectory of 
the original convent. Attached to the establish- 
ment is a school for forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the sub- 
ject, speaking of the obligations of the gray-headed 
pensioners, says : " They are not to intermeddle 
vvilh any business touching the affairs of the hos- 
pital, but to attend only to the service of God, and 
take thankfully what is provided for them, with- 
out muttering, murmuring, or grudging. None Xo 
wear weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs or 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 8fd 

oolored shoos, feathers in their hats, or any ruffian- 
like or unseemly apparel, but such as becomes hos- 
pital men to wear." " And in trutli," adds Stow, 
" happy are they that are so taken from the cares 
and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a 
place as these old men are ; having nothing to 
care for, but the good of their souls, to serve God 
and to live in brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been inter 
ested by the preceding sketch, taken down from 
my own observation, and who may wish to know a 
little more about the mysteries of London, I sub- 
join a modicum of local history, put into my hands 
by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown 
wig and a snuff-colored coat, with whom I be- 
came acquainted shortly after my visit to the 
Charter House. I confess I was a little dubious 
at first, whether it was not one of those apocry- 
phal tales often passed off upon inquiring travel- 
lers like myself; and which have brought our gen- 
eral character for veracity into such unmerited 
reproach. On making proper inquiries, however, 
I have received the most satisfactory assurances 
of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have been 
told tliat he is actually engaged in a full and par- 
ticular account of the very interesting region in 
which he resides ; of which the following m&j be 
considered merely as a foretaste. 



824 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 




What I vJrile is most true .... I have a whole bocke of 
cages l^'ing by me which if I should sette foorth, some graT« 
auntients (within the hearing of Bow bellj would be out of 
charity with me. — Nashe. 

jN the centre of the great city of London 
lies a small neighborhood, consisting of 
a cluster of narrow streets and courts, 
of very venerable and debilitated houses, which 
goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ 
Church School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital 
bound it on the west ; Smithfield and Long Lane 
on the north ; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of 
the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the 
city ; whilst the yaAvning gulf of BuU-and-Mouth 
Street separates it from Butcher Lane, and the 
regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, 
thus bounded and designated, the great dome of 
St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses 
of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave 
Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly 
protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having 
been, in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes 
of Brittany. As London increased, however, 
rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade 
creeping on at their heels, took possession of their 
deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain 



LITTLE BRITAIl^. 325 

became the great mart of learning, and was peo- 
pled by the busy and prolific race of booksellers 
these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating 
beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, settled 
down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Church- 
yard, where they continue to increase and multi- 
ply even at the present day. 

But though thus falling into decline. Little 
Britain siill bears traces of its former splendor. 
There are several houses ready to tumble down, 
the fronts of which are magnificently enriched 
with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown 
birds, beasts, and fishes: and fruits and flowers 
which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. 
There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain re- 
mains of what were once spacious and lordly fam- 
ily mansions, but which have in latter days been 
subdivided into several tenements. Here may 
often be found the family of a petty tradesman, 
with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among 
the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling, 
time-stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, 
gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. 
The lanes and courts also contain many smaller 
houses, net on so grand a scale, but, like your 
small ancient gentry,- sturdily maintaining their 
claims to equal antiquity. These have theu' ga- 
ble ends to the street ; great bow-windows, with 
diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and 
ow arched doorways.* 

* It is evident that the author of this interesting communi- 
cation has included, in his general title of Litile Britain, 
inany of those little lanes and courts that belong immediately 
*» Cl >th Fair. 



S36 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

In this most venerable and sheltered little uesl 
have I passed several quiet years of existence^ 
comfortably lodged in the second floor of one of 
the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room 
is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, 
and set off with a miscellaneous array of furni- 
ture. I have a particular respect for three or four 
high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tar« 
nished brocade, which bear the marks of having 
seen better days, and have doubtless figured in 
some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They 
seem to me to keep together, and to look down 
with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bot- 
tomed neighbors : as I have seen decayed gentry 
carry a high head among the plebeian society with 
which they were reduced to associate. The whole 
front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow- 
window, on the panes of which are recorded the 
names of previous occupants for many generations, 
mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentleman- 
like poetry, written in characters which I can 
scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms of 
many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, 
long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As 
1 am an idle personage, with no apparent occupa- 
tion, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am 
looked upon as the only independent gentleman 
of the neighborhood ; and, being curious to learn 
the internal state of a community so apparently 
shut up within itself, I have managed to work 
my way into all the concerns and secrets of the 
place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 327 

oore of the city, the stronghold of true John Bull 
ism. It is a fragment of London as it was in its 
better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. 
Here flourish in great preservation many of the 
holiday games and customs of yore. The inhab- 
itants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove 
Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast 
goose at Michaelmas; they send love-letters on 
Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of No- 
vember, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe 
at Christmas. Roast beef and plum-pudding are 
also held in superstitious veneration, and port and 
sherry maintain their grounds as the only true 
English wines ;. all others being considered vile 
outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city won- 
ders, which its inhabitants consider the wonders 
of the world ; such as the great bell of St. PaiiFs, 
which sours all the beer when it tolls ; the figures 
that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock ; the 
Monument; the lions in the Tower; and the 
wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in 
dreams and fortune-telling, and an old woman that 
lives in Bull-and-]Mouth Street makes a tolerable 
subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promis- 
ing the girls good husbands. They are apt to be 
rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses ; 
and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked 
upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There 
are even many ghost-stories current, particularly 
concerning the old mansion-houses ; in several of 
which it is said strange sights are sometimes seec 
Lords and ladies, the former in fuU-bottcrned wigs, 



328 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, 
Btays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking 
up and down the great waste chambers, on moon 
light nights ; and are supposed to be the shades of 
the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great 
men. One of the most important of the former is 
a tall, dry old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, 
who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a ca- 
daverous comitenance, full of cavities and projec- 
tions ; with a brown circle round each eye, like a 
pair of horned spectacles. He is much thought of 
by the old women, who consider him as a kind of 
conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed alli- 
gators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes 
in bottles. He is a great reader of almiinacs and 
newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarm- 
ing accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earth 
quakes, and volcanic eruptions ; waich last phe 
nomena he considers as signs of the times. He hat* 
always some dismal tale of t\e kind to deal out to 
his customers, with their <fjf,<;s; and thus at thu 
same time puts both soul -a. ad body into an uproar. 
He is a great believer in omens and predictions ; 
and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and 
Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make sa 
much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually darl 
day ; and he shook the tail of the last comet over 
the heads of his customers and disciples until 
they were nearly frightened out of their wits. Ho 
*ias lately got hold of a popular legend or prophecy, 
on which he has been unusually eloquent. There 
has been a sayuig current among the ancient sibyLs, 



'LITTLE BRITAIN. 32S 

who treasure up these things, that when the grass- 
hopper on the top of the Exchange shook handa 
with the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple 
fearful events would take place. This strange con 
junction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. 
The same architect has been engaged lately on the 
repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the 
steeple of Bow Church ; and, fearful to relate, the 
dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by 
jole, m the yard of his workshop. 

" Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, 
" may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in 
the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, 
near at home, and under our own eyes, which sur- 
passes all the signs and calculations of astrologers." 
Since these portentous weathercocks have thus 
laid their heads together, wonderful events had al- 
ready occurred. The good old king, notwithstand 
ing that he had lived eighty-two years, had all at 
once given up the ghost ; another king had mount 
ed the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly, — 
another, in France, had been murdered ; there had 
been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; 
the bloody scenes at Manchester ; tiie great plot in 
Cato Street ; — and, above all, the queen had re- 
turned to England ! All these sinister events ai'e 
recounted by Mr. Skryme, with a mysterious look, 
and a dismal shake of the head ; and being taken 
with his drugs, and associated in the minds of hia 
auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, 
dnd his own visage, which is a title-page of tribula- 
tion, they have sprearl great gloom through the 
oiindsof the people of Little Britain. They shu ce 



-530 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and 
observe, that they never expected any good to 
come of taking down that steeple, which in old 
times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history 
of Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial 
cheesemonger, who lives in a fragment of one of 
the old family mansions, and is as magnificently 
lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one 
of his own Cheshires. Indeed, he is a man of no 
little standing and importance ; and his renown 
extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and 
even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very 
much taken in affaii'S of state, having read the 
Sunday papers for the last half century, together 
with the " Gentleman's Magazine," Rapin's " His- 
tory of England," and the " Naval Chronicle." His 
head is stored with invaluable maxims which have 
borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is 
his firm opinion that " it is a moral impossible," so 
long as England is true to herself, that anything 
can shake her ; and he has much to say on the 
subject of the national debt ; which, somehow or 
other, he proves to be a great national bulwark 
and blessing. He passed the greater part of his 
life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late 
fears, when, having become rich, and grown into 
the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take 
liis pleasure and see the world. He has therefore 
made several excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, 
and other neighboring towns, where he has passed 
w'hole afternoons in looking back upon the me- 
tropolis through a telescope, and endeavoring to 



LITTLE BRITAIN, 331 

dttsciy the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not 
a stage-coaclunan of Biill-aiid-Moutli Street but 
touches liis hat as he passes ; and he is eoiisid 
ered quite a patron at the eoacli-office of the Goose 
and Gridu'on, St. Paul's Churchyard. His fam- 
ily have been very urgent for him to make an ex- 
pedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of 
those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed 
thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake 
soa-voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its Actions and 
divisions, and party spirit ran very higli at one 
time in consequence of two rival Burial Societies 
being set up in the place. One held its meeting 
at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patronized 
by the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and 
Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it 
is needless to say that the latter was the most 
Nourishing. I have passed an evening or two at 
each, and have acquired much valuable informa- 
tion, as to the best mode of being buried, the 
comparative merits of churchyards, together with 
divers hints on the subject of patent-iron coffins. 
I have heard the question discussed in all its 
bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the lat- 
ter on account of their durability. The feuds 
occasioned by these societies have happily died 
of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing 
themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain 
being extremely solicitous of funereal honors and 
of lying comforttibly in their graves. 

Besides these two funei'al societies there is a 
third of quite a different cast, which tends to throw 



332 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the sunshine of good-humor over the whole neigh- 
borhood. It meets once a week at a little old- 
fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the 
name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a ro 
splendent lialf-moon, with a most seductive bunch 
of grapes. The old edifice is covered with in- 
scriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; 
such as " Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," 
" Wine, Rum, and Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, 
Rum and Compounds, etc." This indeed has 
been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time 
immemorial. It has always been in the family 
of the WagstafFs, so that its history is tolerably 
preserved by the present landlord. It was much 
frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the 
reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and 
then by the wits of Charles the Second's day. 
But what Wagstaff principally prides himself 
upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his 
nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his 
ancestors with his famous walking-staff. This 
however is considered as rather a dubious and 
vain-glorious boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions 
here goes by the name of " The Roaring Lads of 
Little Britain." They abound in old catches, 
glees, and choice stories, that are traditional in 
the place, and not to be met with in any other 
part of the metropolis. There is a madcap un 
dertaker who is inimitable at a merry song ; but 
the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit of 
Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His 
Ancestors were all wags before him, and he has 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 333 

inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and 
jokes, which go with it from generation to gener- 
ation as heii'looms. He is a dapper httle fellow, 
with bandy legs and pot-belly, a red face, with a 
moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair 
behind. At the opening of every club-night he is 
called in to sing his " Confession of Faith," which 
is the famous old drinking-trowl from " Gammer 
Gurton's Needle." He sings it, to be sure with 
many variations, as he received it from his fa- 
ther's lips ; for it had been a standing favorite at 
the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since 
it was -written : nay he affirms that his predeces- 
sors have often had the honor of sincfinf>: it before 
the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, 
when Little Britain was in all its glory.* 



* As mine host of the Half- Moon's *' Confession of Faith " 
may not be familiar to tlie majority of readers, and as it is a 
Bpecimen of the current songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in 
its orifijinal orthography. I would observe, that the whole 
club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on 
the table and clattering of pewter pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

RIy stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thiiike that 1 can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Thougli I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stulf my skyn so full within, 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chcntis, Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 

Booth foote and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynou^e 

Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut brawne teste, 

And a crab laid in the fyre; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 



834 TBE SKETCU-BOOK. 

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a cliilh 
night, the shouts of mei'riment, the snatches of 
song, and now and then the choral bursts of half 
a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this 
jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined 
with listeners, who enjoy a dehght equal to that 
of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuff- 
ing up the steams of a cookshop. 

There are two annual events which produce 
great stir and sensation in Little Britain ; these 
are St. Bartholomew's fair, and the Lord Mayor's 
day. During the time of the fair, which is held 
in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is 
notliing going on but gossiping and gadding about. 
The late quiet streets of Little Britain are over- 
run with an irruption of strange figures and 

No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte niee, if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke. 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle, 

Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
And saytli, sweete harte, I took my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 
CTtorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and wink«, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, 

Or h^ve them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives, 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 
C^oniB. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 335 

faces ; every tavern is a scene of rout and reveL 
The fiddle and the song are heard from the tap- 
room, morning, noon, and night ; and at each win- 
dow may be seen some group of boon companions, 
with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, 
and tankard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and 
singing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even 
the sober decorum of private families, which I 
must say is rigidly kept up at other times among 
my neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia. 
There is no such thing as keeping maid-sen^ants 
within doors. Their brains are absolutely set 
madding with Punch and the Puppet-Show ; the 
Flying Horses ; Signior Polito ; the Fire-Eater ; 
the celebrated Mr. Paap ; and the Irish Giant. 
The children, too, lavish all their holiday money 
in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house 
with \\\Q Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and 
penny-whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's day Ts the great anniver' 
sary. The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the 
inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest poten- 
tate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six horses as 
the summit of human splendor ; and his procession, 
with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train, 
as the grandest of earthly pageants. How they 
exult in the idea, that the King himself dare not 
enter the city, without first knocking at the gate 
i)f Temple Bar, and asking permission of the Lord 
Mayor : for if he did, heaven and earth ! there is 
no knowing what might be the consequence. 
The man in armor who rides before the Lord 
Mayor, and is the city chamnion, has orders to 



336 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

cut down everybody that offends against the dig. 
nity of the city ; and then there is the httle man 
with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at 
the window of the state-coach, and holds the city 
Bword, as long as a pike-staff — Odd's blood ! If 
he once draws that sword, Majesty itself is not 
safe ! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, 
therefore, the good people of Little Britain sleep 
in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual barrier 
against all interior foes ; and as to foreign inva- 
s?ion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself 
into the Tower, call in the train-bands, and put 
the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and 
he may bid defiance to the world ! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own 
habits, and its own opinions, Little Britain has 
Jong flourished as a sound heart to this great 
fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with 
considering it as a chosen spot, where the prin- 
ciples of sturdy John BuUism were garnered up, 
like seed-corn, to renew the national character, 
when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have 
rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that 
prevailed throughout it ; for though there might 
now and then be a few clashes of opinion between 
the adherents of the cheesemonger and the apoth- 
ecary, and an occasional feud between the burial 
sociuties, yet these were but transient clouds, and 
soon passed away. The neighbors met with 
good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and 
never abused each other except behind their 
backs. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 337 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junket- 
ing parties at which I have been present ; where 
we played at All-Foui*s, Pope-Joan, Tom-come- 
tickle-me, and other choice old games ; and where 
we sometimes had a good old English country- 
dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. 
Once a year also the neighbors would gather 
together, and go on a gypsy party to Epping 
Forest. It would have done any man's heart 
good to see the merriment that took place here 
as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. 
How we made the woods ring with bursts of 
laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the 
merry undertaker I After dinner, too, the young 
folks would play at blind-man's-buff and hide-and- 
seek ; and it was amusing to see them tangled 
among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl 
now and then squeak from among the bushes. 
The elder folks would gather round the cheese- 
monger and the apothecary, to hear them talk 
politics ; for they generally brought out a news- 
paper in their pockets, to pass away time in the 
country. They would now and then, to be sure, 
get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes 
were always adjusted by reference to a worthy 
3ld umbrella-maker in a double chin, who, never 
exactly comprehending the subject, managed 
tomehow or other to decide in favor of both 
parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or 
historian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. 
Luxury and innovation creep in ; factions arise ; 
and families now and then spring up, whose ambi- 



388 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tion and intrigues throw the whole system into 
confusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquil- 
lity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, 
and its golden simplicity of manners threatened 
with total subversion, by the aspiring family of a 
retired butclier. 

The fiimily of the Lambs had long been among 
the most tiiriving and popular in the neighbor- 
hood ; the Miss Lambs were the belles of Little 
Britain, and everybody was pleased when Old 
Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop, 
and put his name on a brass plate on his door. 
In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs 
had the honor of being a lady in attendance on 
the Lady Mayoress, at her great annual ball, on 
which occasion she wore three towering ostrich 
feathers on her head. The family never got 
over it ; they were immediately smitten with a 
passion for high life ; set up a one-horse carriage, 
put a bit of gold lace round the errand-boy's hat, 
and have been the talk and detestation of the 
whole neighborhood ever since. They could no 
longer be induced to play at Pope- Joan or blind- 
man's-buff; they could endure no dances but 
quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in 
Little Britain ; and they took to reading novels, 
talking bad French, and plapng upon the piano. 
Their brother, too, who had been articled to an 
attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, charac- 
ters hitherto unkno^vn in these parts ; and he 
confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by tidk- 
ing about Kean, the opera, and the " Edinburgh 
Review." 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 339 

What was still worse, the Lambs gAve a grand 
ballj to which they neglected to invite any of their 
old neighbors ; but they had a great deal of gen 
teel company from Theobald's Road, Red-Lion 
Square, and other parts towards the west. There 
were several beaux of their brotlier's acquaintance 
from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden ; and 
not less than three Aldermen's ladies with tlieii 
daughters. This was not to be forgotten or for- 
given. All Little Britain was in an uproar with 
the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable 
horses, and the rattling and the jingling of hack- 
ney coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood 
might be seen popping their nightcaps out at every 
window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; 
and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that 
kept a lookout from a house just opposite the re 
tired butcher's, and scanned and criticized every 
one that knocked at the door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and 
the whole neighborhood declared they would have 
nothing more to say to the Lambs. It is true 
that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements 
with her quality acquaintance, would give little 
humdnim tea-junketings to some of her old cro- 
nies, " quite," as she woidd say, " in a friendly 
way ; " and it is equally true that her invitations 
were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows 
to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies wouM sit 
and be delighted with the music of the Miss 
Lambs, who would condescend to strum an Irish 
melody for them on the piano ; and they would 
listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's 



540 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Port* 
Bokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich 
heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but then they re- 
h"eved their consciences, and averted the reproaches 
of tlieir confederates, by canvassing at the next 
gossiping convocation everything that had passed, 
and puUmg the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not b« 
made fashionable was the retired butcher him- 
self. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness of 
his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with the 
voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe- 
brush, and a broad face mottled like his own beef 
It was in vain that the daughters always spoke 
of him as " the old gentleman," addressed him as 
" papa," in tones of infinite softness, and endeav- 
ored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slip- 
pers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what 
they might, there was no keeping down the 
butcher. His sturdy nature would break through 
all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good- 
humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes 
made his sensitive daughters shudder ; and he 
persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a 
morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a " bit 
of sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopu- 
larity of his family. He found his old comrades 
gradually growing cold and civil to him ; no longer 
laughing at his jokes ; and now and then tlirow- 
iug out a fling at "some people," and ahmtabout 
** quality binding." This both nettled and per- 
plexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 341 

laughters, with the consummate policy of the 
shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circum- 
Btanee, at length prevailed upon liim to give up 
his afternoon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaflfs ; to 
sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of 
port — a liquor he detested — and to nod in his 
chair in solitary and dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting 
along the streets in French bonnets, with unknown 
beaux ; and talking and laughing so loud that it 
distressed the nerves of every good lady within 
hearing. They even went so far as to attempt 
patronage, and actually induced a French dancing- 
master to set up ui the neighborhood; but the 
worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and 
did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain 
to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp 
with such precipitation, that he absolutely forgot 
to pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea 
that all this fiery indignation on the part of the 
community was merely the overflowing of their 
zeal for good old English manners, and their hor- 
ror of innovation; and I applauded the silent 
contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, 
for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss 
Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived 
the infection had taken hold ; and that my neigh- 
bors, after condemning, were begimiing to follow 
their example. I overheard my landlady impor- 
tuning her husband to let their daughters have 
one quarter at French and music, and that they 
wight take a few lessons in quadrille. I even 



842 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than 
five French bonnets, precisely like those of the 
Miss Lambs, parading about Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would 
gradually die away ; that the Lambs might move 
out of the neighborhood ; might die, or might 
run away with attorneys' apprentices ; and that 
quiet and simplicity might be again restored to 
the community. But unluckily a rival power 
arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow 
with a large jointure and a family of buxom 
daughters. The young ladies had long been re- 
pinmg in secret at the parsimony of a prudent 
father, which kept down all their elegant aspir- 
mgs. Their ambition, being now no longer re- 
strained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly 
took the field against the family of the butcher. 
It is true that the Lambs, having had the first 
start, had naturally an advantage of them in the 
fashionable career. They could speak a little bad 
French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had 
formed high acquaintances ; but the Trotters were 
not to be distanced. When the Lambs appeared 
with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trottera 
mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the 
Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not 
to be behindhand; and though they might not 
boast of as good company, yet they had double 
the number, and were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided it- 
felf into fashionable factions, under the banners 
jf these two families. The old games of Pope- 
loan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely dis- 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 343 

warded ; there is no such thing as getting up an 
liunest country-dance ; and on my attempting to 
Idss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christ 
mas, I was indignantly repulsed ; the IVIiss Lambs 
having pronounced it " shocking vulgar." Bitter 
rivalry has also broken out as to the most fasli- 
ionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs stand- 
ing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and 
the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and 
internal dissensions, like the great empire whose 
name it bears ; and what will be the result would 
puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his talent 
at prognostics, to determine ; though I apprehend 
that it will terminate in the total downfall of gen- 
uine John Bulllsm. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant 
to me. Being a single man, and, as I observed 
before, rather an idle good-for-nothing personage, 
I have been considered the only gentleman by pro- 
fession in the place. I stand therefore in high 
favor with both parties, and have to hear all their 
cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. As I 
am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all 
occasions, I have committed myself most horribly 
with both parties, by abusing their opponents. 1 
might manage to^ reconcile this to my conscience, 
which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot 
to my apprehension — if the Lambs and Trotters 
ever come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, 
I am ruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat 
In time, and am actually looking out for some other 



844 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



nest in this great city, where old English manners 
are still kept up ; where French is neither eaten, 
drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and where there are 
no fashionable families of retired tradesmen. 
This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away 
before I have an old house about my ears ; bid a 
long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, 
and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and 
the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of 
Little Britain. 



ig%tS2^^^ 




^t^> 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 




fhou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream ; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. ■ 

Garrick. 

'0 a homeless man, who has no spot od 
thi? wide world which he can truly call 
his own, there is a momentary feeling ol 
something like independence and territorial con- 
sequence, Avhen, after a weary day's travel, he 
kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, 
and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the 
world without go as it may ; let kingdoms rise or 
fall, so lung as he has the wherewithal to pay bia 
bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of 
all he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the 
poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some twelve 
feet square, his imdisputed empire. It is a mor- 
sel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the 
uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleam- 
ing out kindly on a cloudy day ; and he who has 
advanced some way on a pilgrimage of existence, 



846 THE SKETCH-hOOK. 

knows tlie importance of husbanding even morsels 
and moments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take 
mine ease in mine inn ? " thought I, as I gave the 
fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast 
a complacent look about the little parlor of the 
Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakspeare were just pass- 
ing through my mind as the clock struck mid- 
night from the tower of the church in which he 
lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, 
and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling 
face, uiquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had 
rung. I understood it as a modest hint that it was 
time to retire. My dream of absolute dominioa 
was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like a 
prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and 
putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, 
as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt 
all night of Shakspeare, the jubilee, and David 
Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening 
mornings which we sometimes have in early 
spring ; for it was about the middle of March. 
The chills of a long winter had suddenly given 
way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; 
and a mild air came stealing from the west, 
breathing the breath of life into nature, and woo- 
big every bud and flower to burst forth into fra- 
grance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrim- 
age. My first visit was to the house where 
Shakspeare was born, and where, according to 
tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft 



S TRA TF ORD- ON- A VON. 347 

of wool-comuing. It is a small, mean-looking 
edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place 
of genius, which seems to delight in hatcliing ita 
ofispring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid 
chambers are covered with names and inscriptions 
in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, 
ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peas- 
ant ; and present a simple, but striking instance 
of the spontaneous and universal homage of man- 
kind to the great poet of nature. 

The house Ls shown by a garrulous old lady, 
in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue 
anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locks of 
flaxen hair, cm'lmg from under an exceedingly 
dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in ex- 
hibiting the relics with which this, like all other 
celebrated shrines, aboimds. There was the shat- 
tered stock of the very matchlock ^vith which 
Shakspeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. 
There, too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves 
that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh ; 
the sword also with which he played Hamlet; 
and the identical lantern with which Friar Lau- 
rence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! 
There was an ample supply also of Shakspeare*3 
mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraor- 
dinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood 
of the true cross ; of which there is enough ex- 
tant to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, 
is Shakspeare's chair. It stands in the chimney 
Qook of a small gloomy chamber, just behind 
what was his father's shop. Here he may many 



848 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a time ha\ e sat when a boy, watching the slowly 
revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin % 
or of an evening, listening to the cronies and gos- 
sips of Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales 
and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times 
of England. In this chaii* it is the custom of 
every one that visits the house to sit: whether 
this be done with tlie hope of imbibing any of the 
inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, I 
merely mention the fact ; and mine hostess pri- 
vately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, 
such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the 
chair had to be new bottomed at least once in three 
years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history 
of tliis extraordinary chair, that it partakes some- 
thing of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of 
Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian en- 
chanter ; for though sold some few years since to 
a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has 
found its way back again to the old chimmey 
corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and 
am ever willing to be deceived, where the deceit 
is pleasant and costs nothing. I am therefore a 
ready believer in relics, legends, and local anec- 
dotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise 
all travellers who travel for their gratification to 
be the same. What is it to us, whether these 
Btories be true or false, so long as we can persuade 
ourselves into the belief of tliem, and enjoy all 
the charm of the reality ? There is nothing like 
resolute good-humored credulity in these matters ; 
and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly 



iSf TRA TF ORD- ON- A VON. 349 

to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal 
descent from tlie poet, when, luckily for my faith, 
she put into my hands a play of her own compo- 
sition, wliich set all belief in her consanguinity at 
defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakspeare a few paces 
brought me to his grave. He lies buried in tlio 
chancel of the parish church, a large and vencr* 
able pile, mouldering with age, but richly orna- 
mented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, 
on an embowered point, and separated by adjoin- 
ing gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its sit- 
uation is quiet and retired ; the river runs mur- 
muring at the foot of the churchyard, and the elms 
which grow upon its banks droop their branches 
into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the 
boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as 
to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads 
up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. 
The graves are overgrown with grass ; the gray 
tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the 
earth, are half covered with moss, which has like- 
wise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds 
have built their nests among the cornices and fis- 
sures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter 
and chirping ; and rooks are sailing and cawing 
about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the 
gi'ay-headed sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied 
him home to get the key of the church. He had 
aved in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, 
and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous 
man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly 



S50 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

lost tlie use of liis legs for a few years past. Hia 
dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the 
Avon and its bordering meadows ; and was a pic- 
ture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which 
pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. 
A low white-washed room, wdth a stone floor 
carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and 
liall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glit- 
tered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, 
well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible 
and prayer-book, and the drawer contained the 
family library, composed of about half a score of 
well-thummed v^olumes. An ancient clock, that 
important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the 
opposite side of the room ; with a bright warming- 
pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's 
horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The 
fireplace, as usual, M'^as wide and deep enough to 
admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one 
corner sat the old man's grand-daughter sewing, a 
pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite cor- 
ner was a superannuated crony, whom he ad- 
dressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I 
found, had been his companion from childhood. 
They had played together in infancy ; they had 
worked together in manhood ; they were now 
tottering about and gossiping away the evening jf 
life ; and in a short time they will probably be 
buried together in the neighboring churchyard. 
It is not often that we see two streams of exists 
ence running thus evenly and tranquilly side bj 
side ; it is only in such qu et " bosom scenes " of 
life that tJiey are to be met with. 



a TEA TF ORD- ON-A VON. 351 

1 had Loped to gatlier some traditionary anec- 
dotes of the bard from these ancient chroniclei'S ; 
but they had nothing new to impart. The long 
interval during which Shakspeare's writing lay in 
comparative neglect lias spread its shadow over 
liis history ; and it is his good or evil lot tliat 
scarcely anything remains to his biographers but 
a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been em- 
ployed as carpenters on tho preparations for the 
celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they remembered 
Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who super- 
intended the arrangements, and who, according to 
the sexton, was " a short punch man, very lively 
and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in 
cutting down Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, of which 
he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt 
a sovereign quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two wo'-thy wights 
speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame Avho 
shows the Shakspeare house. John Ange shook 
his head when I mentioned her valuable collection 
of relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry- 
tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt 
as to Shakspeare having been born in her hp-use. 
L soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion 
with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb •• 
the latter having comparatively but few visitoi^ 
Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, 
and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge 
into different channels even at the fountain-head. 

We approached the church through the avenue 
•)f limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly 



S52 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ornamented, with carved doors of massive oak. 
The interior is spacious, and the architecture and 
embellishments superior to those of most country 
churches. There are several ancient monuments 
of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang 
funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piece- 
meal from the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare 
is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepul- 
chral. Tall elms wave before the pointed win- 
dows, and the Avon, which runs at a short dis- 
tance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual 
murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the 
bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed 
on it, said to have been written by himself, and 
which have in them something extremely awful. 
If they are indeed his own, they show that solic- 
itude about the quiet of the grave, which seems 
natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is 
a bust of Shakspeare, put up shortly after his 
death, and considered as a resemblance. The 
aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched 
forehead, and I thought I could read in it clear 
indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by 
which he was as much characterized among his 
contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. 
The inscription mentions his age at the time of 
his decease — fifty-three years ; an untimely death 
for the world : for wliat fruit might not have 



S TEA Tr ORD- ON- A VON. 358 

been uxnected from the golden autumn of such a 
mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicis- 
situdes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine 
of popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been 
without its effect. It has prevented the removal 
of his remains from the bosom of his native place 
to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time 
contemplated. A few years since also, as some 
laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, 
the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space 
almost like an arch, through which one might 
have reached into his gi'ave. No one, however, 
presumed to meddle with his remains so awfully 
guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the 
idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, 
should be tempted to commit depredations, the 
old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, 
until the vault was finished and the aperture closed 
again. He told me that he had made bold to 
look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin 
nor bones ; nothing but dust. It was something, 
I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakspeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his 
favorite daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his 
familv. On a tomb close by, also, is a full-length 
effigy of his old friend John Combe of usurious 
memory ; on whom he is said to have written a 
ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments 
around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything 
that is not connected with Shakspeare. His idea 
pervades the place ; the wliole pile seems but as 
his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked 
23 



854 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and thwarted by dcubt, here indulge in petiect 
aonfidence : other traces of him may be false oi 
dubious, but here is palpable evidence and abso- 
lute certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, 
there was something intense and thrilling in the 
idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare 
were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long 
time before I could prevail upon myself to leave 
the place ; and as I passed through the church- 
yard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew- 
trees, the only relic that I have brought from 
Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pil- 
grim's devotion, but I had a desire to see the old 
family seat of the Lucys, at Charlecot, and to ram- 
ble through the park where Shakspeare, in com- 
pany with some of the roysters of Stratford, com- 
mitted his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In 
this hare-brained exploit we are told that he was 
taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, 
where he remained all night in doleful captivity. 
When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas 
I^ucy, his treatment must have been galling and 
humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his spirit as 
to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed 
to the park gate at Charlecot.* 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lam- 
poun: — 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great ; 

Yet an asse in his state, 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. S55 

This Jiagitious attack upon the dignity of the 
knight so incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer 
at AVai'wick to put the severity of the laws in force 
against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakspeare did 
not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight 
of the shire and a country attorney. He forth- 
with abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon 
and his paternal trade ; wandered away to Lon- 
don ; became a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an 
actor ; and, finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, 
through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Strat- 
ford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and the world 
gained an immortal poet. He retained, however, 
for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of 
the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in 
his writings ; but in the sportive way of a good- 
natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the origf- 
inal Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed 
upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, 
like those of the knight, had white luces * in the 
quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biog- 
raphers to soften and explain away this early 
transgression of the poet ; but I look upon it as 
one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his 
situation and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when 
young, had doubtless all the wildne^s and irregu- 
larity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected 
genius. The poetic temperament has naturally 
something in it of the vagabond. When left to 
itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in 

• The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon 
about Charlecot. 



356 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

everything eccentric and licentious It is often 
a tum-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, 
whether a natural genius shall turn out a great 
rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakspeare's 
mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might 
have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has 
all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when run- 
ning, like an unbroken colt, about the neighbor 
hood of Stratford, he was to be found in the com- 
pany of all kinds of odd anomalous characters ; 
that he associated with all the madcaps of the 
place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at 
mention of whom old men shake their heads, and 
predict that they will one day come to the gallows. 
To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park 
was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, 
and struck liis eager, and, as yet untamed, imagi- 
nation, as something delightfully adventurous.* 

* A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in 
his youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, 
picked up at Stratford'^by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in 
his " Picturesque Views on the Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little 
market-town of Bedford, famous fcj" its ale. Two societies of 
the village yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of 
the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of 
the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Among 
others, the people of Stratford were called out to prove the 
strength of their heads ; and in the number of the champions 
was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb that " they who 
drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstnff 
to his Back. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the 
first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to 
sarry them off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile 
when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie dowa 
onder a crab-tree, where the}"- passed the night. It is still 
Itauding, and goes by the name of Shakspeare's tree. 

Ill the morning his companions awaked the bard, and pro- 



S TRA TF ORD- ON- A VON. 357 

TLe old mansion of Charlecot and its surround- 
ing park still remain in the possession of the Lucy 
family, and are peculiarly interesting, from being 
connected with this whimsical but eventful cir- 
cumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As 
the house stood but little more than three miles' 
distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a 
pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through 
some of those scenes from which Shakspeare 
must have derived his earliest ideas of rural 
imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but 
English scenery is always verdant, and the sud- 
den change in the temperature of the weather was 
surprising in its quickening effects upon the land- 
scape. It was inspiring and animating to witness 
this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm 
breath steaUng over the senses ; to see the moist 
mellow earth beginning to put forth the green 
sprout and the tender blade ; and the trees and 
shrubs, In their reviving tints and bursting buds, 
giving the promise ^f returning foliage and flower. 
The cold snowdrop, that little borderer on the 
skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste 

1)030(1 returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had 
lad enough, having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Dudging Exhall, Papist VVicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

The villages here alluded to," sa3'-s Ireland, " still beai 
Vhe epithets thus given them: the people of Pebworth are 
itill famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor ; Hi'borough 
is now called Haunted Hilborough ; and Grafton is ^uaomi 
ibi the poverty of its soil ' 



858 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

white blossoms in the small gardens before the 
cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs 
was faintly heai'd fi*ora the fields. The sparrow 
twittered about the thatched eaves iUid budding 
hedges ; the robin threw a livelier note into his 
late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, spring- 
ing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, 
towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pour- 
ing forth torrents of melody. As I watched the 
little songster, mounting up higher and higher, 
until his body was a mere speck on the white 
bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled 
with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare*8 
exquisite little song in Cymbeline : — 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phcebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With everj'thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise ! 

Lideed the whole country about here is poetic 
ground : everything is associated with the idea 
of Shakspeare. Every old eottage that I saw, L 
fencied into some resort of his boyhood, where he 
had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic lite 
and manners, and heard tliose legendary tales and 
wild superstitions which he has woven like witch- 
craft into his dramas. For in his time, we are 
told, it was a popular amusement in winter even- 
ings " to sit round the fire, and tell meiTy tales 
of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, 



8 fk^ '^F ORD- ON- A VON. aK9 

giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, 
goblins, and friars." * 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of 
the Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy 
doublings and windings through a wide and fertile 
valley ; sometimes glittering from among willows, 
which fringed its borders ; sometimes disappear- 
ing among groves, or beneath green banks ; and 
sometimes rambling out into full view, and mak- 
ing an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. 
This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale 
of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating 
blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the 
soft intervening landscape lies in a manner en- 
chained in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about tliree miles, 
I turned off into a footpath, which led along tiw: 
borders of fields, and under hedgerows to a pri- 
vate gate of the park ; there was a stile, how- 
ever, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there be- 
ing a public right of way through the grounds. 
I delight in these hospitable estates, in wliich every 
one has a kind of property — at least as far as the 
footpath is concerned. It in some measure rec- 
onciles a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, 
to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have 

* Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a 
host of these fireside fancies. " And they have so fraid us 
»yith bull-begoars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, 
satyrs, pans, faiines, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, 
centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, 
changeHngs, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, the 
mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier drake, the 
puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tuiribler, boneless, 
and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shad- 
•wes." 



360 THE SKETCU-BOOR. 

parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his 
recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely, 
and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the 
lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege 
of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at 
the same time, the trouble of paying for it, and 
keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of 
Oixks, and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth 
of centuries. The wind sounded solemnly among 
their branches, and the rooks cawed from their 
hereditary nests in the tree-tops. The eye ranged 
through a long lessening vista, with nothing to 
interrupt the view but a distant statue ; and a 
vagrant deer stalkuig like a shadow across the 
openmg. 

There is something about these stately old ave- 
nues that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not 
merely from the pretended similarity of form, but 
from their bearing the evidence of long duration, 
and of having had their origin in a period of time 
with which we associate ideas of romantic gran- 
deur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity, 
and proudly concentrated independence of an an- 
cient family ; and I have heard a worthy but 
aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of 
the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that 
" money could do much \\dth stone and mortar, 
but, thank Heaven, there was no such thing as 
suddenly builduig up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wanderuig in early life among this 
rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of 
the adjoining park of FuUbroke, which then fci mod 



STBA TFORD- 0^~A VON. 861 

a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shaks- 
peare's commentators have supposed he derived 
his noble forest meditations of Jaques, and the en 
chanting woodland pictures in " i\& You Like It." 
It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes, 
that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of 
inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the 
beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination 
kindles mto revery and rapture ; vague but ex- 
quisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it ; 
and we revel in a mute and almost incommunica- 
ble luxury of thought. It was in some such mood, 
and perhaps under one of those very trees before 
me, which threw their broad shades over the 
gi'assy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, 
that the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into 
that Httle song which breathes the very soul of a 
rural voluptuary. 

Under the green wood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither. 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a 
large building of brick, with stone quoins, and ia 
in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, 
liaving been built in the first year of her reign. 
The exterior remains very nearly in its original 
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of 
the residence of a wealthy country gentleman 
^f those days. A great gateway opens from the 



362 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

park into a kind of courtyard in front of the 
bouse, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and 
flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the 
ancient barbacan ; being a kind of outpost, and 
flanked by towers ; though evidently for mere 
ornament, instead of defence. The front of the 
house is completely in the old style ; with stone- 
shafted casements, a great bow-window of heavy 
stone-work, and a portal with armorial bearings 
over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the 
building is an octagon tower, surmounted by a 
gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, 
makes a bend just at the foot of a gently sloping 
bank, which sweeps down from the rear of the 
house. Large herds of deer were feeding or 
reposing upon its borders ; and swans were sail- 
ing majestically upon its bosom. As I contem- 
plated the venerable old mansion, I called to 
mind Falstaffs encomium on Justice Shallow's 
abode, and the affected indifference and real van* 
ity of the latter. 

" Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
" Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all, 
Sir John: — marry, good air." 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the 
old mansion in the days of Shakspeare, it had now 
an air of stillness and solitude. The great iron 
gateway that opened into the courtyard was 
locked; there was no show of servants bustling 
about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as 
I passed, being no longer harried by the moss- 
troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic 



a TEA TFORD- ON-A VON. 868 

life that I met with was a white cat, stealmg 
with wary look and stealthy pace towards the 
Btables, as if on some nefirious expedition. I 
must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoun- 
drel crow which I saw suspended against tlie 
barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit 
that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain 
that rigorous exercise of territorial power which 
was so strenuously manifested in the case of the 
bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at 
length found my way to a lateral portal, which 
was the every-day entrance to the mansion. I 
was courteously received by a worthy old house- 
keeper, who, with the civility and communica- 
tiveness of her order, showed me the interior of 
the house. The greater part has undergone al- 
terations, and been adapted to modern tastes and 
modes of living : there is a fine old oaken stair- 
case ; and tlie great hall, that noble feature in an 
ancient manor-house, still retains much of the 
appearance it must have had in the days of 
Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; 
and at one end is a gallery in which stands an 
organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, 
which formerly adorned the hall of a country 
gentleman, have made way for family portraits. 
There is a wide hospitable fireplace, calculated for 
an ample old-fkshioned wood fire, formerly the 
rallying-place of winter festivity. On the oppo- 
site side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-win 
iow, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the 
fi/Crtyai'd. Here are emblazoned in stained gla.«<s 



564 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the aimorial bearings of the Lucy family for many 
generations, some being dated in 1558. I was 
delighted to observe in the quarterings the three 
white luces, by which the chai'acter of Sir Thomas 
was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. 
They are mentioned in the first scene of the 
" Merry Wives of Windsor," where the Justice is 
in a rage with FalstafF for having " beaten his men, 
killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." The 
poet had no doubt the offences of himself and liis 
comrades in mind at the time, and we may sup- 
pose the ftimily pride and vindictive threats of the 
puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pom- 
pous indignation of Sir Thomas. 

^''Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will ra^jke a 
Star-CMiamber matter of it ; if he were twenty Johi Fal- 
stafFs, he shnll nnt abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Shnder. 1 the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and 

OiTrtWi. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and cuslalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman Liorn, 
master parson ; who writes himself Armigero in anj^ Dill, 
warrant, quittance, or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these 
three hundred years. 

Sle7ider. All his successors gone before him have done 't, 
and all his ancestors that come after him ma}' ; they may give 
the dozen white luces in their coat. ***** 

Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is 
no fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desiie to 
hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your v>*- 
ments in that. 

Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were yourg again, the ovord 
should end it! " 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a por- 
trait by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy i^m- 
ily, a great beauty of the time of Charles the 
Second : the old housekeeper shook her head as 



8 TRA TF ORD- ON- A VON. 365 

she pointed to the picture, and informed me that 
this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and 
had gambled away a great portion of the family 
estate, among which was that part of the park 
where Shakspeare and his comi-ades had killed 
the deer. The lands thus lost had not been en- 
tirely regained by the family even at the present 
day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to 
confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and 
arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention 
was a great painting over the fireplace, containing 
likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, 
who inliabited the hall in the latter part of Shak- 
speare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was 
the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper 
assured me that it was his son ; the only likeness 
extant of the former being an effigy upon his 
tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet of 
Charlecot.* The picture gives a lively idea of 

* This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight 
in complete armor. Near him lies the ethgy of his wife, and 
on her tomb is the following inscription; which, if really com- 
posed by her husband, places him quite above the intellectual 
level of Master Shallow: 

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy 
of Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and 
heir of Thomas. Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcestei 
Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to her heav- 
enly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our 
Lord God 1595 and of her age GO and three/ All the time of 
her lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, nevei 
ietected ci any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, ir 
love to he.* husband most fa3'thful and true. In trieudship 
mosV const-int; to what in trust was committed unto her most 
»ecret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her house, 
bringing up of youth in ye fear of God tliat did converse with 
her moste rare and singular. A great muintayner of hospi- 
tality. Greatly esteemed of her betters; misliked of tone 



866 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the costume and manners of the time. Sir 
Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet ; white 
shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked yel 
low, or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane- 
colored beard." His lady is seated on the oppo- 
site side of the picture, in wide ruff and long 
stomacher, and the children have a most vener 
able stiffness and formality of dress. Hounda 
and spaniels are mingled in the family group ; a 
hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, 
and one of the children holds a bow ; — all inti- 
mating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and 
archery — so indispensable to an accomplished 
gentleman in those days.* 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture 
of the hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to 
meet with the stately elbow-chair of -carved oak, 
in which the country squire of former days was 

unless of the envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide 
a woman so garnished with virtue as not to be bettered and 
hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived most virtuously 
80 shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did 
knowe what hath byn written to be true. 

Thomas Lucye. 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his 
time, observes, " his housekeeping is seen much in the differ- 
ent families of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their ken- 
nels; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his 
discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, 
and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the 
eport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin. 
in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all 
sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger 
and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His 
great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and 
ftiU of hawk, perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a 
broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest ter- 
riers, hounds, and spaniels." 



S TRA TF ORD- ON- A VON. 867 

iTont lo sway the sceptre of empire over his rural 
domains ; and in which it miglit be presumed the 
redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in aAvful 
state when the recreant Shakspeare was brought 
before him. As I like to deck out pictures for 
ray own entertainment, I pleased myself with 
the idea that this very hall had been the scene 
of the unlucky bard's examination on the morn- 
ing after his captivity in the lodge. I fancicjd to 
myself the rural potentate, surrounded by his 
body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serv- 
ing-men, with their badges ; while the luckless 
culprit was brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, 
in the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and 
whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of 
country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious 
housemaids peeping from the half-opened doors ; 
while from the gallery the fair daughters of the 
knight leaned gracefully forward, eymg the youth- 
ful prisoner with that pity " that dwells in wo- 
manhood." — Who would have thought that this 
poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief au- 
thority of a country squire, and the sport of rus 
tic boors, was soon to become the delight of 
princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the 
dictator to the human mind, and was to confer 
immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and 
a lampoon ! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into 
the garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard 
and arbor where the justice treated Sir John 
Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a last year's 
pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of cara- 



868 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ways ; " but I had already spent so much of the 
day in my ramblings that I was obh'ged to give 
up any further investigations. When about to 
take my leave I was gratified by the civil en- 
treaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I 
would take some refreshment : an instance of 
good old hospitality which, 1 grieve to say, we cas- 
tle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I 
make no doubt it is a virtue which the present 
representative of the Lucys inherits from his an- 
cestors ; for Shakspeare, even in his caricature, 
makes Justice Shallow importunate in this re- 
spect, as witness his pressing instances to FalstafF. 

" By cock and pre, sir, you shall not away to-night * * * 
I will not excuse j'^ou; you shall not be excused; excuses 
shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you 
shall not be excused * * *. Some pigeons, Davy; a couple 
of short-legged liens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little 
tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old halL 

My mind had become so completely possessed by 

the imaginary scenes and characters connected 

with it, that I seemed to be actually living among 

them. Everything brought them as it were before 

my eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room 

opened, I almost expected to hear the feeble voice 

of Master Silence quavering forth his favorite 

ditty: — 

" 'T is merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry shrove-tide! " 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect 
on the singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to 
spread the magic of his mind over the very face 
of nature ; to give to things and p^ces a cbar^ 



S TEA TF ORD- ON- A VON. 369 

and character not their own, and to turn this 
" working-day world " into a perfect fairy land. 
He is indeed tlie true enchanter, whose spell oper- 
ates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagina- 
tion and the heart. Under the wizard influence 
of Shakspeare I had been walking all day in a 
com})lete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape 
thi-ough the prism of poetry, which tinged every 
object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been 
surrounded with fancied beings ; with mere airy 
nothings, conjured up by poetic power ; yet which, 
to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard 
Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak : had beheld 
the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring 
through the woodlands ; and, above all, had been 
once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff 
and his contemporaries, from the august Justice 
Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slender and 
the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and 
blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull 
realities of life with innocent illusions ; who has 
spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my 
checkered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many 
a lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful 
sympathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my 
return, I paused to contemplate the distant church 
in which the poet lies buried, and could not but 
exult in the malediction, which has kept his ashes 
undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. 
What honor could his name have derived from 
being mingled in dusty companionship with the 
epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of 
24 



870 777^ SKETCH-BOOK. 

b titled multitude ? Wliat would a crowded ooi 
ner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared 
wim this reverend pile, which seems to stand in 
beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum ! The 
solicitude about the grave may be but the off- 
spring of an over-wi'ought sensibility ; but human 
nature is made up of foibles and prejudices ; and 
its best and tenderest affections are mingled Avith 
these factitious feelings. He who has sought re- 
nown about the world, and has reaped a full har- 
vest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that 
there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so 
sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his 
native place. It is there that he seeks to be 
gathered in peace and honor among his kindred 
and his early friends. And when the weary 
heart and failing head begin to warn him that the 
evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly 
-as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to 
sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would It have cheered the spirit of the 
youthful bard when, wandering forth in disgrace 
upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look 
upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen 
that, before many years, he should return to it 
covered with renown ; that his name should be- 
come the boast and glory of his native place; 
that his ashes should be religiously g:iarded as 
its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening 
spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful con- 
templation, should one day become the beacon, 
towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide 
the literary pilgrim of every nation to liis tomb ! 



TRAITS OF INDl^iN CUARACTER 371 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 




"I appeal to any white man if ever be entered Logan's 
t&bin hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came 
cold and naked, and he clothed him not." 

Speech of an Indian Chief. 

HERE is something in tlu; diaracter and 
habits of the North American savage, 
taken in connection with the scenery 
over which he is accustomed to range, its vast 
lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, and track- 
less plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully strik- 
ing and sublime. lie is formed for the Avilderness, 
as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, 
simple, and enduring ; fitted to grapple with diffi- 
culties, and to support privations. There seems 
but little soil in his heart for the support of the 
kindly virtues ; and yet, if we would but take the 
trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism 
and Imbitual taciturnity, which lock up his char- 
acter from casual observation, we should find him 
linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more 
of those sympathies and affections that are usually 
ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines 
of America, in the early periods of colonizatioa 
U) bo doubly wronged by the white men. They 



872 THE SKETcn-nouK. 

haze been dispossessed of their hereditary posse& 
sions bj mercenary and frequently wanton war- 
fare ; and their characters have been traduced by 
bigoted and interested writers. The colonist often 
treated them like blasts of the forest ; and the 
author has endeavored to justify him in his out- 
rages. The former found it easier to exterminate^ 
tlian to civilize ; the latter, to vilify than to dis- 
criminate. The appellations of savage and pagan 
were deemed sufficient to sanction the hostilities 
of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the 
forest were persecuted and defamed, not because 
they were gi^ilty, but because they were igno- 
rant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been 
properly appreciated or respected by the white 
man. Li peace he has too often been the dupe 
of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded as 
a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a 
question of mere precaution and convenience. 
Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own 
Bafety is endangered, and he is sheltered by im- 
punity ; and little mercy is to be expected from 
him when he feels the sting of the reptile and 
is conscious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus 
early, exist in common circulation at the present 
day. Certain learned societies have, it is true, 
with laudable diligence, endeavored to investigate 
and record the real characters and manners of 
the Indian tribes ; the American government, too, 
has wisely and humanely exerted itself to incul- 
cate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them. 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 378 

and to protect them from fraud and injustice.* 
The current opinion of the Indian character, how 
ever, is too apt to be formed from the miserable 
hordes which infest the frontiers, and hang on 
the skirts of the settlements. These are too com- 
monly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted 
and enfeebled by the vices of society, without be- 
ing benefited by its civilization. That proud 
mdependence, wliich formed the main pillar of 
savage virtue, has been shaken down, and the 
whole moral fabric lies in rums. Their spirits 
are Immiliated and debased by a sense of inferior- 
ity, and their native courage cowed and daunted 
by the superior knowledge and power of their 
enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced 
upon them like one of those withering airs that 
will sometimes breed desolation over a whole re- 
gion of fertility. It has enervated their strength, 
multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon 
their original barbarity the low vices of artificial 
life. It has given them a thousand superfluous 
wants, whilst it has diminished their means of 
mere existence. It has driven before it the ani- 
mals of the chase, who fly from the sound of the 
axe and the smoke of the settlement, and seek 
refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet 
untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the 

* The American f^overnment has been indefatigable in its 
ex.crtions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to in- 
troduce among them the arts of civilization, and civil and re- 
ligious liuowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the 
white traders, no purchase of land from them by individuals 
B permitted; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from 
4hem as a present, without the express sanction of govern- 
uent. These orecautious are strictly enforced. 



874 THE SKEICH-BOOK. 

Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks 
and renmaiits of once powerful tribes, who have 
lingered in the vicinity of tlie settUments, and 
sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. 
Poverty, repining, and hopeless poverty, a canker 
of the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes their 
spirits, and blights every free and noble quality 
of their natures. They become drunken, indo- 
lent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They 
loiter like vagrants about the settlements, among 
spacious dwelHngs replete with elaborate comforts, 
which only render them sensible of the compaia- 
tive wretchedness of their own condition. Lux- 
ury spreads its ample board before their eyes; 
but they are excluded from the banquet. Plenty 
revels over the fields ; but they are starving in the 
midst of its abundance : the whole wilderness has 
blossomed into a garden ; but they feel as reptiles 
that infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the 
undisputed lords of the soil ! Their wants were 
few, and the means of gratification within their 
reach. They saw every one around them shar- 
ing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, 
feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the 
same rude garments. No roof then rose, but 
was open to the homeless stranger; no smcke 
curled among the trees, but he was welcome to sit 
down by its fire, and join the hunter in his re- 
past. " For," says an old historian of New 
England, "their life is so void of care, and they 
are so lovmg also, that they make use of those 
things they enjoy as common goods, and are 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 375 

ifiereiu so compassionate, that rather than one 
should starve through want, they would stai've 
all ; tlius they pass their tune merrily, not regard- 
/jig our pomp, but are better content with their 
own, which some men esteem so meanly of." 
Such were the Indians, whilst i:i the pride and 
energy of then* primitive natures : they resembled 
those wild plants, which tlu-ive best in the shades 
of the forest, but sin-ink from the hand of cultiva- 
tion, and perish beneath the influence of the sun. 

In discussing tlie savage character, wi'iters 
have been too prone to indulge in vulgar preju- 
dice and passionate exaggeration, instead of the 
candid temper of true philosophy* They have 
not sufficiently considered the peculiar circum- 
stances in wliich the Indians have been placed, 
and the peculiar principles under which they have 
been educated. No being acts more rigidly from 
rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is reg- 
ulated according to some general maxims early 
implanted in his mind. The moral laws that 
govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he 
conforms to them all ; — the white man abounds 
in laws of religion, morals, and maimers, but how 
many does he violate ? 

A frequent ground of accusation against the 
Indians is their disregard of treaties, and the 
treachery and wantonness with which, in time of 
apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hostili- 
ties. The intercourse of the tvhite men with the 
Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrust- 
ful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat 
ihem with that confidence and frankness which are 



^76 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

indispensable to real friendship ; nor is snfficienl 
caution observed not to offend against those feel- 
ings of pride or superstition, which often prompt 
the Indian to hostility quicker than mere consid- 
erations of interest. The solitary savage feels 
silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not 
diffused over so wide a surface as those of the 
white man ; but they run in steadier and deeper 
channels. His pride, his affections, his supersti- 
tions, are all directed towards fewer objects ; but 
the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably 
severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we 
cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a com- 
munity is also limited in number, and forms one 
great patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, 
the injury of an individual is the injury of the 
whole ; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost 
instantaneously diffused. One council -fire is 
sufficient for the discussion and arrangement of a 
plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting -men 
and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition 
combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. 
The orator awakens their martial ardor, and they 
are wi'ought up to a kind of religious desper- 
ation, by the visions of the prophet and tht 
dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exaspera- 
dons, arising from a motive peculiar to the Indian 
character, is extant in an old record of the early 
fSettlement of Massachusetts. The planters of 
Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the 
dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the 
grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 377 

with which it had been decorated. The Indiana 
are remarkable for the reverence which they en 
tertain for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribei 
that have passed generations exiled from th^ 
abodes of their ancestors, when by chance they 
have been travelling in the vicinity, have been 
known to turn aside from the highway, and, 
guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, have 
crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, 
buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of 
then* tribe were anciently deposited ; and there 
have passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced 
by tliis sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, 
whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered 
his men together, and addressed them m the fol- 
lowing beautifully simple and pathetic harangue ; 
a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an 
affecting instance of filial piety in a savage. 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky 
was underneath this globe, and birds grew silent, 
I began to settle, as my custom is, to take repose 
Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought I 
saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troub- 
led ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit 
cried aloud, ' Behold, my son, whom I have cher- 
ished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the 
hands that lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. 
Canst thou forget to take revenge of those wild 
people who have defaced my monument in a de- 
spiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and 
honorable customs ? See, now, the Sachem's grave 
des like the common people, defaced by an igao* 
•ftle race. Thy mother doth complain, and iva 



fe78 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

plores thy aid against this thievish people, who 
have- newly intruded on our land. If this be suf- 
fered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasthig hab- 
itation.' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, ali 
in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get 
some strength, and recollect my spirits that were 
fled, and determined to demand your counsel and 
4issistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, 
as it tends to show how these sudden acts of 
hostility, which have been attributed to caprice 
and perfidy, may often arise from deep and gen- 
erous motives, which our inattention to Indian 
character and customs prevents our properly ap- 
preciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the 
Indians is their barbarity to the vanquished. This 
had its origin partly in policy and partly in super- 
stition. The tribes, though sometimes called na- 
tions, were never so formidable in their numbers, 
but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly 
felt; this was particularly the case when they 
had been frequently engaged in warfare; and 
many an instance occui-s in Indian history, where 
a tribe, that had long been formidable to its 
neighbors, has been broken up and driven away, 
by the capture and massacre of its principal fight- 
ing-men. There was a strong temptation, there- 
fore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so much to 
gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future 
Becurity. The Indians had also the superstitious 
belief, frequent among barbarous nations, ajid 
prevalent also among the ancients, that the niiiwea 



ThAlTS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 379 

of their friends who had fallen in battle were 
soothed by the blood of the captives. The pris- 
oners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are 
adopted into their families in the place of the 
slain, and are treated with the confidence and 
affection of relatives and friends ; nay, so hos- 
pitable and tender is their entertainment, that 
when the alternative is offered them, they wiU 
often prefer to remain with their adopted breth 
ren, rather than return to the home and the 
friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their pris- 
oners has been heightened since the colonization 
of the whites. What was formerly a compliance 
with policy and superstition, has been exasperated 
into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot 
but be sensible that the white men are the usurp- 
ers of their ancient dominion, the cause of their 
degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their 
race. They go forth to battle, smarting with 
injuries and indignities which they have individ- 
ually suffered, and they are driven to madness and 
despair by the wide-spreading desolation and the 
overwhelming ruin of European warfare. The 
whites have too frequently set them an example 
of violence, by burning their villages, and laying 
waste their slender means of subsistence ; and 
yet they wonder that savages do not show mod- 
eration and magnanimity towards those who have 
lefl them nothing but mere existence and wretch- 
tdness. 

"We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly 
4ud ti-eacherous, because they use stratagem in 



380 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

warfare, iu preference to open force ; but ui thia 
tliey are fully justified by their rude code of lionor. 
They are early taught that stratagem is praise 
worthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace 
to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of 
his foe; he triumphs in the superior craft and 
sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise 
and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally 
more prone to subtlety than open valor, owing to 
iiis physical weakness in comparison with other 
animals. They are endowed with natural weap- 
ons of defence : with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, 
and talons ; but man has to depend on his supe- 
rior sagacity. In all liis encounters with these, 
his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and 
when he perversely turns his hostility against his 
fellow-man, he at first continues the same subtle 
mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most 
harm to our enemy with the least harm to our- 
selves ; and tliis of course is to be effected by strat- 
agem. That chivalrous courage wliich induces 
us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to 
I'ush in the face of certain danger, is the offspring 
of society, and produced by education. It is hon- 
orable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofly 
sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, 
and over those yearnings after personal ease and 
security, which society has condemned as ignoble. 
It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame , 
and thus the dread of real evil is overcome h^ 
the superior dread of an evil which exists but i» 
the imaorination. It has been cherished and 



TRAITS OF JNDIAN CHARACTER. 381 

*timnlated also by various means. It has been 
the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous 
story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to 
shed round it the splendors of fiction ; and even 
the historian has forgotten the sober gravity of 
narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and 
rhapsody in its praise. Triumplis and gorgeous 
pageants have been its reward ; monuments, on 
which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence 
its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a 
nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus artifi- 
cially excited, courage has risen to an extraor- 
dinary and factitious degree of heroism ; and ar- 
rayed in all the glorious " pomp and circumstance 
of war," this turbulent quality has even been able 
to eclipse many of those quiet but invaluable vir- 
tues, which silently ennoble the human character, 
and swell the tide of human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the de- 
fiance of danger and pain, the life of the Indian is 
a continual exhibition of it. He lives in a state 
of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adven- 
ture are congenial to his nature ; or rather seem 
necessary to arouse liis faculties and to give an 
interest to his existence. Surrounded by hostile 
tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and 
eurprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and live^ 
with his weapons in his hands. As the ship 
careers in fearful singleness through the schtudes 
of ocean, — as the bird mingles among clouds 
and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, 
across the pathless fields of air, — so the Indian 
ciolds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted. 



382 TUB SKETCH-BOOK. 

througli the boundless bosom of the wilderaesa 
His expeditions may vie in distance and dangei 
with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade 
of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, 
exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurk- 
ing enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, 
those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wan- 
derings ; in his light canoe of bark he sports, like 
a feather, on their waves, and darts, with the 
swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of 
the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from 
the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by 
the hardships and dangers of tlie chase ; he wraps 
himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and 
the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the 
cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass 
the Indian in his lofty contempt of death, and the 
fortitude with which he sustains its crudest inflic- 
tion. Indeed we here behold him rising superior 
to the white man, in consequence of his peculiar 
education. The latter rushes to glorious death at 
the cannon's mouth ; the former calmly contem- 
plates its approach, and triumphantly endures it, 
amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes 
and the protracted agonies of lire. Pie even 
takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and pro- 
voldng their ingenuity of torture ; and as the 
devouring flames prey on his very vitals, and the 
flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last 
song of triumph, breathing the defimice of an un- 
conquered heart, and invoking the spirits of liia 
fe-thers to witness that he dies -viihout a groan. 



TXAITS OF INDIAN CJlAhACTER. 883 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the 
early historians have overshadowed the charac- 
ters of the unfortunate natives, some bright 
gleams occasionally break through, which tlu'ow 
a degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. 
P\acts are occasionally to be met with in the rude 
annals of tlie eastern provnnces, which, though 
I'ecorded with the coloring of prejudice and big- 
otry, yet speak for themselves, and will be dwelt 
on with applause and sympathy, when prejudice 
shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian 
wars in New England, there is a touching account 
of the desolation carried into the tribe of the 
Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the 
cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. 
In one place we read of the surprisal of an Indian 
fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrap- 
ped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot 
down and slain in attempting to escape, " all being 
despatched and ended in the course of an hour." 
After a series of similar transactions, " our sol- 
diers," as the historian piously observes, " being 
resolved by God's assistance to make a final 
destructioii of tliem," the unhappy savages being 
hunted from their homes and fortresses, and pur- 
isued with fire and sword, a scanty, but gallant 
band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, 
with their wives and children, took refuge in n 
swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen 
by despair, with hearts bursting with gi-ief at the 
iestruction of their tribe, and spirits galled and 



384 THE sK/:rcn-nooK. 

Bore at the fancied ignominy of tlieir defeat, they 
refused to ask their lives at the hands of an in- 
sulting foe, and preferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded 
in their dismal retreat, so as to render escape 
impracticable. Thus situated, their enemy " plied 
them with shot all the time, by which means 
many were killed and buried In the mire." In 
the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of 
day, some few broke through the besiegers and 
escaped into the woods : " the rest were left to 
the conquerors, of which many were killed in the 
swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather. In 
theu' self-willedness and madness, sit still and be 
shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for 
mercy. When the day broke upon this handful 
of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we 
are told, entering the swamp, " saw several heaps 
of them sitting close together, upon whom they 
discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve 
pistol-bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of 
the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards 
of them ; so as, besides those that were found 
dead, many more M^ere killed and sunk into the 
mire, and never were minded more by friend or 
foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, 
without admiring the stern resolution, the un- 
bending pride, the loftiness of spirit, that seemed 
to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes, 
and to raise them above the Instinctive feelings of 
human nature ? When the Gauls laid waste the 
city of Rome, they found the senators clothed in 



TRAITS OF 'XDIAN CHARACTKH. 885 

their robes, and seated with stern tranquillity in 
their curule chairs ; in this manner they snffered 
death without resistance or even supplication. 
Such conduct was, in them, applauded as noble 
and magnanimous ; in the hapless Indian it was 
reviled as obstinate and sullen ! How truly are 
we the dupes of show and (jircumstance ! How 
different is virtue, clothed in purple and en- 
throned in state, from virtue, naked and destitute, 
and perishing obscurely in a wilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pict- 
ures. The eastern tribes have long since disap- 
peared ; the forests that sheltered them have been 
laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them 
in the thickly settled States of New England, 
excepting here and there the Indian name of a 
village or a stream. And such must, sooner or 
later, be the fate of those other tribes which skirt 
the frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled 
from their forests to mingle in the wars of white 
men. Li a little while, and they will go the way 
that their brethren have gone before. The few 
hordes which still linger about the shores of Hu- 
ron and Superior, and the tributary streams of the 
Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes that 
once spread over Massachusetts and Connecticut, 
and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hud- 
son ; of that gigantic race said to have existed on 
the borders of the Susquehanna ; and of those va- 
rious nations that flourished about the Potomac 
and the Rappahaimock, and that peopled the for- 
ests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They 
will vanish like a vapor from the face of the 
25 



886 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

earth ; their very history will be lost in forget- 
fiilnese ; and " the places that now know them 
will know them no more forever." Or if, per- 
chance, some dubious memorial of them should 
survive, it may be in the romantic dreamg 
of the poet, to people in imagination his glades 
and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan 
deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon 
the dark story of their wi'ongs and wretchedness ; 
should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, 
despoiled, driven from their native abodes and the 
sepulchres of their fathers, hunted like wild 
beasts about the earth, and sent down with vio- 
lence and butchery to the grave, posterity will 
either turn with horror and incredulity from the 
tale, or blush with indignation at the inhumanity 
of their forefathers. — " We are driven back," 
said an old warrior, " until we can retreat no far- 
ther ; — our hatchets are broken, our bows are 
snapped, our fires are nearly extinguished : — a 
little longer, and the white man will cease ro 
persecute us — for we shall cease to exist ! " 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET S87 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 




As monumental bronze unchanged his look. 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook: 
Ti-ain'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

T is to be regretted that those eaily 
writers, who treated of the discovery and 
settlement of America, have not given 
us more particular and candid accounts of the re- 
markable characters that flourished m savage life. 
The scanty anecdotes which have reached us are 
tiill of peculiarity and interest ; they furnish us 
with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show 
what man is in a comparatively primitive state, 
and what he owes to civilization. There is some- 
thing of the charm of discovery in lighting upon 
these wild and unexplored tracts of human na- 
ture ; in witnessing, as it were, the native growth 
of moral sentiment, and perceiving those gener- 
ous and romantic qualities which have been arti- 
ficially cultivated by society, ^egetatuig in spon- 
taneous hardihood and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happmess, and in 
deed almost the existence, of man depends so 



S88 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

much upon tlie opinion of his fellow-men, he is 
constantly acting a studied part. The bold and 
peculiar traits of native character are refined 
away, or softened down by the levelling influence 
of what is termed good breeding ; and he prac- 
tises so many petty deceptions, and affects so many 
generous sentiments, for the purposes of popular- 
ity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from 
his artificial character. The Indian, on the con- 
trary, free from the restraints and refinements of 
polished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary 
and independent being, obeys the impulses of his 
inclination or the dictates of his judgment ; and 
thus the attributes of his- nature, being freely in- 
dulged, grow singly great and striking. Society 
is like a la^vn, where every roughness is smoothed, 
every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is 
delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet sur- 
face ; he, however, who would study nature in its 
wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, 
must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and 
dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking 
through a volume of early colonial history, where- 
in are recorded, with gi'cat bitterness, the outrages 
of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers 
of New England. It is painful to perceive even 
from these partial narratives, how the footsteps 
of civilization may be traced in the blood of the 
aborigines ; how easily the colonists were moved 
to hostility by the lust of conquest ; h ow mercilesa 
and exterminating was their warfare. The imag- 
mation shrinks at the idea, how many intellecttiaj 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 889 

beings were hunted from the earth, how many 
brave and noble hearts, of nature's sterlmg coin- 
age, were broken down and trampled in the 
dust. 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, 
an Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror 
throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut. He 
was the most distinguished of a number of con- 
temporary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, 
the Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the other 
eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement 
of New England ; a band of native untaught he- 
roes, who made the most generous struggle of 
which human nature is capable ; iSghting to the 
last gasp in the cause of their country, without a 
hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy 
of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local 
story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely 
any authentic traces on the page of history, but 
stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of 
tradition.* 

Wlien the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers 
are called by their descendants, first took refuge 
on the shores of the New World, from the relig- 
ious persecutions of the Old, their situation was 
to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few 
in number, and that number rapidly perishing 
away through sickness and hardships ; surround- 
ed by a howling wilderness and savage tribes ; 
exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter, 

* While correcting the proof-sheets of this article, the authoi 
.8 informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished 
in lieroic pcem on i\\f story of Philip of Pokanoket- 



890 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate 
their minds were filled with doleful forebodings, 
and nothing preserved them from sinking into 
despondency but the strong excitement of reUgious 
enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were 
visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the "W am- 
panoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a 
great extent of country. Instead of taking ad- 
vantage of the scanty number of the strangers, 
and expelling them from his territories, into which 
they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive 
for them a generous friendship, and extended 
towards them the rites of primitive hospitality. 
He came. early in the spring to their settlement 
of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful 
of followers, entered into a solemn league of peace 
and amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and 
promised to secure for them the good-will of his 
savage allies. Whatever may be said of Lidian 
perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good 
faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. 
He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of 
the white men ; suffering them to extend their 
possessions, and to strengthen themselves in the 
land ; and betraying no jealousy of their increas- 
ing power and prosperity. Shortly before his 
death he came once more to New Plymouth, with 
his son Alexander, for the purpose of renewirg 
the covenant of peace, and of securing it to Lis 
posterity. 

At this (Conference he endeavored to protect the 
religion of his forefathers from the encroaching 
leal of the missionaries: and stipulated that no 



PHILIP OF / QKANOKET. 391 

fiirther attempt should be made to draw off bis 
people from their ancient faith ; but, finding the 
English obstinately opposed to any such condition, 
he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the 
last act of his life was to bring his two sons 
Alexander and Philip (as they had been named 
by the English), to the residence of a principal 
settler, recommending mutual kindness and confi- 
dence ; and entreating that the same love and 
amity which had existed between the white men 
and liimself might be continued afterwards with 
his childi-en. The good old Sachem died in peace, 
and was happily gathered to his fathers before 
sorrow came upon his tribe ; his children re- 
mained behind to experience the ingratitude of 
white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He 
was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly 
tenacious of his hereditary rights and dignity. 
The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the 
strangers excited his indignation : and he beheld 
with uneasiness their exterminating wars with 
the neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to 
incur their hostility, being accused of plotting 
with the Narragansets to rise against the English 
and drive them from the land. It is impossible 
to say whether this accusation was warranted by 
facts or was grounded on mere suspicion. It is 
evident, however, by the violent and overbearing 
measures of the settlers, that they had by this 
time begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase 
of their power, and to grov» harsh and inconsid- 
irate in their treatment of the natives. They 



6j2 the sketch-book. 

disspatclied an armed force to seize upon Alexan- 
der, and to bring liim before their courts. He 
was traced to liis woodland haunts, and surprised 
at a hunting-house, where he was reposing with 
a band of liis followers, unarmed, after the toils 
of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest, and 
the outrage offered to his sovereign dignity, so 
preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud 
savage, as to throw him into a raging fever. He 
was permitted to return home, on condition of 
sending his son as a pledge for his reappearance ; 
but the blow he had received was fatal, and be- 
fore he had reached his home he fell a victim to 
the agonies of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, 
or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, 
on account of his lofty spirit and ambitious tem- 
per. These, together with his well-known energy 
and enterprise, had rendered him an object of 
great jealousy and apprehension, and he was ac- 
cused of having always cherished a secret and 
implacable hostility towards the whites. Such 
may very probably, and very naturally, have been 
the case. He considered them as originally but 
mere intruders into the country, who had pre- 
sumed upon indulgence, and were extending an 
influence baneful to savage life. He saw the 
whole race of his countrymen melting before 
them from the face of the earth; then' territoriea 
slipping from their hands, and their tribes becom- 
ing feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may bo 
Raid that the soil was originally purchased by the 
•ettlers ; but who does not know the nature of 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 395 

Indian purchases, in the early periods of coloniza- 
tion ? The Europeans always made tlii'ifty bar 
gains tlu'ough then* superior adroitness in traffic; 
and they gained vast accessioiiri of territory b} 
easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated sav- 
age is never a nice inquii*er into the refinements 
of law, by which an injury may be gradually and 
legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by which 
he judges; and it was enough for Philip to know 
that before the intrusion of the Em-opeans his 
countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now 
they were becoming vagabonds in the land of 
their fathers. ^ 

But whatever may have been liis feelings of 
general hostility, and his particular indignation 
at the treatment of his brother, he suppressed 
them for the present, renewed the contract with 
the settlers, and resided peaceably for many years 
at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by the English, 
Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of dominion of his 
tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at fi^rst 
but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form 
and substancp ; and he was at length charged 
with attempting to instigate the various Eastern 
tribes to rise at once, and, by a simultaneous ef- 
fort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It 
is difficult at this distant period to assign the ^op- 
er credit due to these early accusations agaii^l 
the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion^ 
ftnd an aptness to acts of violence, on the pari 
\>f the whites, that gave weight and importance 
to every idle tale. Informers abounded when 

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



394 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

talebearing met with countenance and reward 
and the sword was readily unsheathed when its 
success was certain, and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against 
Philip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a rene- 
gado Lidian, whose natural cunning had been 
quickened by a partial education which he had 
received among the settlers. He changed his 
faith and his allegiance two or three times, with 
a facihty that evinced the looseness of his princi- 
ples. He had acted for some time as Philip's 
oonfidential secretary and counsellor, and had 
enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, 
however, that the clouds of adversity were gath- 
ering round his patron, he abandoned his service 
and went over to the whites ; and, in order to 
gain their favor, charged his former benefactor 
with plotting against their safety. A rigorous 
investigation took place. Philip and several of 
his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing 
was proved against them. The settlers, however, 
had now gone too far to retract ; they had pre- 
viously determined that Philip was a dangerous 
neighbor; they had publicly evinced their dis- 
trust ; and had done enough to insure his hostil- 
ity ; according, therefore, to the usual mode of 
rea^ning in these cases, his destruction had be- 
come necessary to their security. Sausaman, the 
treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards fomid 
dead, in a pond, having fallen a victim to the 
vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of 
whom was a friend and counsellor of Philip, 
were apprehended and tried, and, on the testi- 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 895 

inony of one very questionable witness, were 
condemned and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects, and ignorainioua 
punishment of his friend, outraged the pride and 
exasperated the passions of Pliilip. The bolt 
which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened 
him to the gathering storm^ and he determined to 
trust himself no longer in the power of the white 
men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted 
brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a 
furtlier warning in the tragical story of JNIian- 
tonimo, a great Sachem of the Narragansets, 
who, after manfully facing his accusers before a 
tribunal of the colonists, exculpating hunself 
from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assur- 
ances of amity, had been perfidiously despatched 
at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered 
hL«» fighting men about him ; persuaded all stran- 
gers that he could to join his cause; sent the 
women and children to the Narragansets for 
safety ; and wherever he appeared, was contin- 
ually surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of 
distrust and irritation, the least spark was suffi- 
cient to set them in a flame. The Indians, hav- 
ing weapons in tlieir hands, grew mischievous, 
and committed various petty depredations. In 
one of their maraudings a warrior was fired on 
and killed by a settler. This was the signal for 
open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge 
the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war 
resounded through the Plymouth colony. 

In tlie early chronicles of these dark and mel 



5^6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

auclioly times we meet with many indicatioDi^ of 
the diseased state of the public mind. The gloom 
of religious abstraction, and the wildness of their 
situation, among trackless forests and savage 
tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious 
fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the 
frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. 
They were much given also to a belief in omens, 
Tlie troubles with Philip and his Indians were 
preceded, we are told, by a variety of those 
awful warnings which forerun great and public 
calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow 
appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which was 
looked upon by the inhabitants as a " prodigious 
apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other 
towns in their neighborhood, " was heard the re- 
port of a irreat piece of ordnance, with a shaking 
of the earth and a considerable echo." * Others 
were alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning by the 
discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed 
to whistle past them, and the noise of drums re- 
sounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the 
westwai'd ; others fancied that they heard the 
galloping of horses over their heads ; and certain 
monstrous births, which took place about the 
time, filled the superstitious in- some towns with 
doleful forebodings. Many of these portentous 
Bights and sounds may be ascribed to natural 
phenomena : to the northern lights which occur 
vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which ex- 
plode in the air ; the casual rushing of a blast 
through the top branches of the forest ; the crash 

• The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 897 

of fallen trees or disrupted rocks ; and to tlioae 
other uncouth sounds , and echoes Avhich will 
sometimes strilvc the ear so strangely amidst the 
profoimd stillness of woodland solitudes. These 
may have startled some melancholy imaginations, 
m.iy have been exaggerated by the love for the 
marvellous, and listened to wth that avidity with 
which we devour whatever is fearful and myste- 
rious. The universal currency of these supersti- 
tious fancies, and the grave record made of them 
by one of the learned men of the day, ai*e strongly 
characteristic of the times. 

Tlie nature of the contest that ensued was such 
as too often distinguishes the warfare between 
civilized men and savages. On the part of the 
whites it was conducted with superior skill and 
success ; but with a wastefulness of the blood, 
and a disregard of the natural rights of their an- 
tagonists ; on the part of ihe Indians it was 
waged with the desperation of men feaxless of 
death, and who had nothing to expect from peace 
but humiliation, dependence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us 
by a worthy clergyman of the time ; who dwells 
with horror and indignation on every hostile act of 
the Indians, however justifiable, whilst he men- 
tions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities 
of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer 
and a traitor ; without considering that he was a 
true-born prince, gallantly fighting at the head 
of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his fam- 
ily ; to retrieve the tottering power of his line ; 
and to deliver his native land from the oppression 
of usurping strangers. 



898 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous re* 
volt, if such had really been formed, was worthy 
of a capacious mind, and, had it not been prema- 
turely discovered, might have been overwhelming 
in its consequences. Tlie war that actually broke 
out was but a war of detail, a mere succession 
of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. 
Still it sets forth the military genius and daring 
prowess of Philip ; and wherever, in the preju- 
diced and passionate narrations that have been 
given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find 
him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility of ex- 
pedients, a contempt of suffering and hardship, 
and an unconquerable resolution, that command 
our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount 
Hope, he threw himself into the depths of those 
vast and trackless forests that skirted the settle- 
ments, and were almost impervious to anything 
but a wild beast, or an Indian. Here he gath- 
ered together his forces, like a storm accumulat- 
ing its stores of mischief in the bosom of the 
thunder-cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a 
time and place least expected, carrying havoc and 
dismay into the villages. There were now and 
then indications of these impending ravages, that 
filled the minds of the colonists with awe and 
apprehension. The report of a distant gun would 
perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, 
where there was known to be no white man ; the 
cattle which had been wandering in the woods 
would sometimes return home wounded ; or an 
Indian or two would be seen lurking about the 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 399 

skirts of the forests, and snrlclenly disappearing ; 
as the liglitning will sometimes be seen playing 
silently about the edge of the cloud that is brew- 
ing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even sur- 
rounded by the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped 
almost miraculously from their toils, and plunging 
into the mlderness, would be lost to all search or 
inquiry, until he again emerged at some far distant 
quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his 
strongholds were the great swamps or morasses, 
which extend in some parts of New England ; 
composed of loose bogs of deep black mud ; per- 
plexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the 
shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, 
overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The un- 
certain footing and the tangled mazes of these 
shaggy wilds rendered them almost impenetrable 
to the white man, though the Indian could thrid 
their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into 
one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, 
was Philip once driven with a band of his follow- 
ers. The English did not dare to pursue him, 
fearing to venture into these dark and frightful 
recesses, where they might perish in fens and 
miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. They 
therefore invested the entrance to the Neck, and 
began to build a fort, with the thought of starving 
out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted 
themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in 
the dead of the night, leaving the women and chil- 
dren behind ; and escaped away to the westward 
kindling the flames of war among the tribes of 



400 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

IMassacliusetts and the Nipmuck country, and 
threatening tlie colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of univer- 
sal apprehension. The mystery in which he was 
enveloped exaggerated his real terrors. lie was 
an evil that walked in darkness, whose coming 
none could foresee, and against which none knew 
wJien to be on the alert. The whole country 
abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed 
almost possessed of ubiquity ; for, in whatever 
part of the widely extended frontier an irruption 
from the forest took place, Philip was said to be 
its leader. Many superstitious notions also were 
circulated concerning him. He was said to deal 
in necromancy, and to be attended by an old In- 
dian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and 
who assisted him by her charms and incantations. 
This indeed was frequently the case with Indian 
chiefs ; either through their own credulity, or to 
act upon that of their followers ; and the influence 
of the prophet and the dreamer over Indian su- 
perstition has been fully evidenced in recent in- 
stances of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from 
Pocasset, his fortunes were in a desperate condi- 
tion. His forces had been thinned by repeated 
fights, and he had lost almost the whole of his re- 
sources. In this time of adversity he found a 
faithful friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all 
the Narragansets. He was the son and heir of 
Miantonimo, the great Sachem who, as already 
mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the 
charge of conspiracy, had been privately put to 



r III LIP OF POKANOKET. 401 

death at the perfidious instigations of tlie settlcj's. 
" He was the heir," says the okl chronicle]-, " of all 
his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his 
malice towards the English ; " — he certainly was 
the heir of his insults and injuries, and the legiti- 
mate avenger of his murder. Though he had fbr- 
bonie to take an active part in this hopeless war, 
yet he received Philip and his broken forces w\i\\ 
open arms, and gave them the most generous 
countenance and support. This at once drew 
upon him the hostility of the English ; and it was 
determined to strike a signal blow that should in- 
volve both the Sachems in one common ruin. A 
great force was, therefore, gathered together from 
Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and 
was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth 
of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and 
leafless, could be traversed with comparative facil- 
ity, and would no longer afford dark and impene- 
trable fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had con- 
veyed the greater part of his stores, together with 
the old, the infirm, the women and children of 
his tribe, to a strong fortress, where he and 
Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their 
forces. This fortress, deemed by tlie Indians im- 
pregnable, was situated upon a rising mound, or 
kiiid of island, of five or six acres, in the midst 
of a swamp ; it was constructed wdth a degree 
of judgment and skill vastly superior to what is 
usually displayed in Indian fortification, and in- 
dicative of the martial genius of these two chief- 
tains. 

2ti 



402 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English pene- 
trated, through December snows, to this strong- 
hold, and came upon the garrison by surprise. 
The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The as- 
sailants fvere repulsed in their first attack, and 
several of their bravest officers were shot do^vn in 
the act of storming the fortress sword in hand. 
The assault was renewed with greater success. 
A lodgment was effected. The Indians were 
driven from one post to another. They disputed 
their ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury 
of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to 
pieces ; and after a long and bloody battle, Philip 
and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving war- 
riors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in 
the thickets of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the 
fort ; the whole was soon in a blaze ; many of 
the old men, the women, and the children per- 
ished in the fiames. This last outrage overcame 
even the stoicism of the savage. The neighbor- 
ing woods resounded with the yells of rage and 
despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors, as they 
beheld the destruction of their dwellings, and 
heard the agonizing cries of their wives and off- 
spring. " The burning of the wigwams," says a 
contemporary writer, " the shrieks and cries of 
the women and children, and the yelling of the 
warriors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting 
scene, so that it greatly moved some of the sol- 
diers." The same writer cautiously adds, " they 
were in much doubt then, and afterwards seriously 
inquired, whether burning their enemies alive 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 408 

eoiild be consistent with humanity and the benev- 
olent principles of the Gospel." * 

The fote of the brave and generous Canonchei 
Is worthy of particular mention : the last scene of 
Iiis life is one of the noblest instances on record 
of Lidian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by 
this signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to 
the hapless cause which he had espoused, he re- 
jected all overtures of peace, offered on condition 
of betraying Philip and his follo\vers, and declared 
that " he would fight it out to the last man, rather 
than become a servant to the English." His 
home being destroyed ; his country hai assed and 
laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors ; 
he was obliged to wander away to the banks of 
the Connecticut ; where he formed a rallying 
point to the whole body of western Lidians, and 
laid waste several of the English settlements. 

Early in the sprmg he departed on a hazardous 
expedition, with only thirty chosen men, to pene- 
trate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, 
and to procure seed-corn to plant for the suste- 
nance of his troops. This little band of adventur- 
ers had passed safely through the Pequod coun- 
try, and were in the centre of the Narraganset, 
resting at some wigwams near Pawtucket River, 
when an alarm was given of an approaching en- 
emy. Having but seven men by him at the time, 
Canonchet despatched two of them to the top of a 
aeighbormg hill, to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of 
* MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 



404 THE SKETCE-BCOK. 

English and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled 
in breathless terror past their chieftain, without 
stoppmg to inform him of the danger. Canonchet 
sent another scout, who did the same. He then 
sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in 
confusion and affright, told him that the whole 
British army was at hand. Canonchet saw there 
was no choice but immediate flight. He attempted 
to escape round the hill, but was perceived and 
hotly pursued by the hostile Indians, and a few 
of the fleetest of the English. Finding the swift- 
est pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, 
first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and 
belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to 
be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of 
pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his 
foot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep as 
to wet his gun. This accident so struck him 
with despair, that, as he afterwards confessed, 
" his heart and his bowels turned withm him, and 
he became like a rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved, thai, being 
seized by a Pequod Indian within a short distance 
of the river, he made no resistance, though a man 
of great vigor of body and boldness of heart. But 
on being made prisoner the whole pride of his 
spiiit arose within him ; and from that moment, 
we find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, 
Qotliing but repeated flashes of elevated and 
piince-like heroism. Being questioned by one ot 
tlie English who first came up with him, and who 
iial not attained his twenty -second year, the 



PRILIF OF POKANOKET. 405 

proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt 
upon his youilii'ul countenance, replied, " You are 
a child ; you cannot understand matters of war ; 
let your brother or your chief come, — him will 
I answer." 

Though repeaj:ed offers were made to him of 
his lite, on condition of submitting with his nation 
to the English, yet he rejected them with disdain, 
and refused to send any proposals of the kind to 
the great body of his subjects ; saying, that he 
knew none of them would comply. Being re- 
proached with his breach of faith towards the 
whites, — his boast that he would not deliver up 
a Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's 
nail, — and his threat that he would burn the 
English alive in their houses, — he disdained to 
justify himself, haughtily answering that others 
were as forward for the war as himself, and " he 
desired to hear no more thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidel- 
ity to his cause and his friend, might have touched 
the feelings of the generous and the brave ; but 
Canonchet was an Indian, a being towards whom 
war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion 
no compassion ; — he was condemned to die. The 
last words of him that are recorded are worthy 
the greatness of his soul. When sentence of death 
was passed upon him, he observed "that he liked 
'i well, for he should die before his heart was soft, 
or he had spoken anything unworthy of himself." 
His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, 
Por ho was shot at Stoningham, by tliree young 
Sachems of liis own rank. 



406 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the 
death of Caiionchet, were fatal blows to the for- 
tunes of King Philip. He made an ineffectual 
attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up the 
Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed of 
the native talents of a statesman, his arts were 
counteracted by the superior arts of his enlight^ 
ened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill 
began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring 
tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw himself 
daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly 
thinning around him. Some were suborned by 
the whites ; others fell victims to hunger and fa- 
tigue, and to the frequent attacks by which they 
were harassed. His stores were all captured; 
his chosen friends were swept away from before 
his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by his side ; 
his sister was carried into captivity ; and in one 
of his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave 
his beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the 
enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, " being 
thus gradually carried on, his misery was not pre- 
vented, but augmented thereby ; being himself 
made acquainted with the sense and experimental 
feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of 
friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of 
all family relations, and being stripped of all out- 
wai'd comforts, before his own life should be taken 
away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, hia 
own followers began to plot against his life, thai 
by sacrificing him they might purchase dishonor 
able safety. Through treachery a number of his 



PHILTP OF POKANOKET. 407 

faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an 
Indian princess of Poca^set, a near kinswoman 
and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the 
hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among them 
at the time, and attempted to make her escape by 
crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by 
swimming, or starved by cold and hunger, she 
was found dead and naked near the water-side. 
But persecution ceased not at the grave. Even 
death, the refuge of the wretched, where the 
wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no 
protection to this outcast female, whose great 
crime was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and 
her friend. Her corpse was the object of un- 
manly and dastardly vengeance ; the head was sev- 
ered from the body and set upon a pole, and was 
thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of her cap- 
tive subjects. They immediately recognized the 
features of their unfortunate queen, and w^ere so 
affected at tliis barbarous spectacle, that we are 
told they broke forth into the " most horrid and 
diabolical lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the com- 
plicated miseries and misfortunes that surrounded 
him, the treachery of his followers seemed to wring 
his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is 
said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had 
success in any of his designs." The spring of hope 
was broken, — the ardor of enterprise was extin- 
guished, — he looked around, and all was danger 
and darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor any 
a,rm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty 
Dand of followers, who still remained true to bis 



408 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

desperate fi^rtunes, the unhappy Philip wandered 
back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient 
dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about, 
like a spectre, among the scenes of former power 
and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family and 
friend. There needs no better picture of his ies- 
titude and piteous situation than that furnished 
by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is un- 
warily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favoi 
of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. " PhiHp,' 
he says, " like a savage wild beast, having been 
hunted by the EngUsh forces through the woods, 
above a hundred miles backward and forward, a* 
last was driven to his own den upon Moum 
Hope, where he retired, with a few of his besv 
friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison 
to keep liim fast till the messengers of death came 
by divine permission to execute vengeance upoc 
him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and de- 
spair, a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory 
We picture him to ourselves seated among his 
oareworn followers, brooding in silence over his 
blasted fortunes, and acquh'ing a savage sublimity 
from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking- 
place. Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to 
the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow 
more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience 
a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of 
bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued 
by misfortune ; but great mmds rise above it. The 
very idea of submission awakened the fury of 
Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 409 

vvlio proposed an expedient of peace. The brotlier 
of the victim made his escape, and in I'evenge be 
trayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of 
white men and Indians were immediately de. 
spatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched 
glaring with fury and despair. Before he was 
aware of their approach, they had begun to sur- 
round him. In a httle while he saw five of his 
trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; all resist- 
ance was vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, 
and made a headlong attempt to escape, but was 
shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of 
his own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but un- 
fortunate King Philip ; persecuted wliile living, 
slandered and dishonored when dead. If, how- 
ever, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes 
furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in 
them traces of amiable and lofty character suffi- 
cient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect 
for his memory. We find that, amidst all the 
harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant 
warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of 
connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to 
the generous sentiment of friendship. The cap- 
tivity of his "beloved wife and only son" are 
mentioned with exultation as causing him poig- 
nant misery: the death of any near friend is 
triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sen- 
sibilities ; but the treachery and desertion of many 
of his followers, in whose affections he had con- 
fided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to 
bave bereaved him of all further comfort He 



410 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

was a patriot attached to his native soil, — a 
prince true to liis subjects, and indignant of their 
v^Tongs, — a soldier, daring in battle, firm ui ad- 
versity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every 
variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish 
in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, 
and with an untamable love of natural liberty, 
he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the 
forests or in the dismal and famished recesses 
of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his 
haughty spirit to submission, and live depend- 
ent and despised in the ease and luxury of the 
settlements. With heroic qualities and bold 
achievements that would have graced a civilized 
warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the 
poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer 
and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, 
like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and 
tempest — without a pityi:ig eye to weep his fall, 
or a friendly hand to record his struggle. 



JOHN BULL. 411 



JOHN BULL. 



An old song Jiade by an aged old pate, 

Of an old wcrshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 

That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 

And an old porter to relieve tiie poor at his gate. 

With an old study fiU'd full of learned old books, 

With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by hii 

looks, 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 




w 



'^^HERE is no species of humor in which 
the English more excel than that which 
consists in caricaturing and giving ludi- 
crous appellations, or nicknames. Li this way 
they have whimsically designated, not merely 
individuals, but nations ; and, m their fondness 
for pushing a joke, they have not spared even 
themselves. One would thmk that, m personify- 
ing itself, a nation would be apt to picture some- 
thing grand, heroic, and imposing ; but it is char- 
acteristic of the popular humor of the Enghsh, 
and of their love for what is blunt, comic, and 
familiar, that they have embodied their national 
oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old 
fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, 
leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus 
tliey have taken a singular delight in exhibiting 
tbc-ir most private foibles in a laughable point of 



412 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

view ; and have been so successful in theii* de- 
lineations, that there is scarcely a being in actual 
existence more absolutely present to the pub- 
lic mind than that eccentric personage, John 
Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of tho 
character thus drawn of them has contributed to 
fix it upon the nation, and thus to give reality 
to what at first may have been painted in a great 
measure from the imagination. Men are apt to 
acquire peculiarities that are continually ascribed 
to them. The common orders of English seein 
wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which 
they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to 
act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually 
before their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes 
make their boasted Bull-ism an apology for then* 
prejudice or gi'ossness ; and this I have especially 
noticed among those truly homebred and genuine 
sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond 
the sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should 
be a little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter 
impertinent truths, he confesses that he is a real 
John Bull, and ill ways speaks his mind. If he 
now and then flies into an unreasonable burst of 
passion about trifles, he observes, that John Bull 
is a choleric old blade, but then his passion w 
over in a moment, and he bears no malice. If 
he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensi- 
bility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven for 
his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has 
no relish for frippery and knick-knacks. His very 
proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay 



JOHN BULL. 413 

e xtravagan tT.y for absurdities, is excused under the 
plea of munificence — for John i.« always more 
generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will 
contrive to argue every fault into a merit, and 
will frankly convict himself of being the honest- 
est fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may 
have suited in the first instance, it has gradually 
adapted itself to the nation, or rather they have 
adapted themselves to each other ; and a stranger 
who wishes to study English peculiarities, may 
gather much valuable information from the innu- 
merable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in 
the windows of the caricature-shops. Still, how- 
ever, he is one of those fertile humorists, that 
are continually thromng out new portraits, and 
presenting different aspects from different points 
of view ; and, often as he has been described, I 
cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch 
of him, such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, down- 
right matter-of-fict fellow, with much less of poe- 
try about him than rich prose. There is little 
of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong 
natural feeling. He excels in humor more than 
in wit ; is jolly rather than gay ; melancholy 
rather than morose ; can easily be moved to a 
sudden tear, or surprised into a broad laugh ; but 
he Icathes sentiment, and has no turn for light 
pleasantry. He is a boon-companion, if you allow 
him to have his humor, and to talk about him- 
self and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, 



414 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

with life and purse, however soundly he may be 
cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a 
propensity to be somewhat too ready. He is a 
busy-minded personage, who thinks not merely 
for himself and family, but for all the country 
round, and is most generously disposed to be 
everybody's champion. He is continually volun- 
teering his services to settle his neighbors' affairs, 
and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in 
any matter of consequence without asking his 
advice ; though he seldom engages in any friendly 
office of the kind without finishing by getting mto 
a squabble with all parties, and then railing bit- 
terly at their ingratitude. He unluckily took 
lessons in his youth in the noble science of de- 
fence, and having accomplished himself in the 
use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a 
perfect master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has 
had a troublesome life of it ever since. He can- 
not hear of a quarrel between the most distant 
of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to 
fumble with the head of his cudgel, and consider 
whether his interest or honor does not require that 
he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has 
extended his relations of pride and policy so 
completely over the whole country, that no event 
can take place, without infringing some of his 
finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his 
little domain, with these filaments stretching forth 
in every direction, he is liko some cholp.ric, bot- 
tle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web 
over a whole cliamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, 



JOHN BULL. 415 

aor a breeze blow, without startling his repose, 
and causing him to sally forth wrathfuUy from his 
den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered 
old fellow at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of 
being in the midst of contention. It is one of 
his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes 
the beginnmg of an affray ; he always goes into 
a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grum- 
bling even when victorious ; and though no one 
fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested 
point, yet, when the battle is over, and he comes 
to the reconciliation, h^, is so much taken up ^vith 
the mere shaking of hands, that he h apt to let 
his antagonist pocket all that they have been 
quarrelling about. It is not, therefore, fighting 
that he ought so much to be on his guard against, 
as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him 
out of a farthing ; but put him in a good-humor, 
and you may bargain him out of all the money 
in his pocket. He is like a stout ship, which 
will weather the roughest storm uninjured, but 
roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico 
abroad ; of pulling out a long purse ; flinging his 
mo»>ey bravely about at boxing - matches, horse- 
races, cock-fiojhfs, and carryino; a hifjli head amon2 
" gentlemeJi of the f^mcy ; " but immediately after 
one of these fits of extravagance he will be taken 
witli violent qualms of econ'^niy ; stop short at 
the most trivial expenditure ; talk desperately of 
being ruined and brought upon the parish ; and. 
Ji such moods, will n )t pay the smallest trades 



416 THE SKETCH-BOOR. 

man's bill without violent altercation. lie is m 
fact the most punctual and discontented paymaster 
in the world ; di-awing his coin out of his breeches- 
pocket with infinite reluctance ; paying to the ut- 
termost fartliing, but accompanying every guinea 
with a gi'owl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a 
bountiful provider, and a hospitable housekeepcjr. 
His economy is of a whimsical kind, its chief 
object being to devise how he may afford to be 
extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself a -beef- 
steak and pint of port one day, that he may roast 
an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat 
all his neighbors on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously ex- 
pensive ; not so much from any great outward 
parade, as from the great consumption of solid 
beef and pudding ; the vast number of followers 
he feeds and clothes ; and his singular dispositiou 
to pay hugely for small services. He is a most 
kind and indulgent master, and, provided his ser- 
vants humor his peculiarities, flatter hi» vanity a 
little now and then, and do not peculate grossly 
on him before his face, they may manage him to 
perfection. Everything tliat hves on him seems to 
thrive and grow fat. His house-servants are well 
paid, and pampered, and have little to do. His- 
horses are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly be- 
fore his state carriage; and his house-dogs sleep 
quietly about the door, and will hardly bark at a 
house-breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor- 
house, gi'ay with ago, and of a most venerable, 



JOHN BULL. 417 

though weather-beaten appearance. It ha^i beeu 
built upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumu- 
lation of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. 
The centre bears evident traces of Saxon archi- 
tecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and- old 
English oak can make it. Like all the relics of 
that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate 
»^"" 5, and dusky chambers ; and though these 
have been partially lighted up in modern days, 
yet there are many places where you must still 
grope in the dark. Additions have been made to 
the original edifice from time to time, and great 
alterations have taken place ; towers and battle- 
ments have been erected during wars and tu- 
mults ; mngs built in time of peace ; and out- 
houses, lodges, and offices run up according to the 
whim or convenience of different generations, un- 
til it has become one of the most spacious, ram- 
bling tenements imaginable. An entire wing is 
taken up with the family chapel, a reverend pile, 
that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, 
indeed, in spite of having been altered and sim- 
plified at various periods, has still a look of solemn 
religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with 
the monuments of John's ancestors ; and it is 
Enugly fitted up with soft cushions and well-lined 
chairs, where such of his family as are inclined 
to church services may doze comfortably in the 
discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much 
money; but he is stanch in his religion, and 
piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that 
many dissenting chapels have been erected in his 

27 



418 THE SKErCU-BOOR. 

vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom 
he has had quarrels, are strong Papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, 
at a large expense, a pious and portly family 
chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous 
personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, wlio 
always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, 
winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes 
the children when refractory, and is of great use 
in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say 
theu' prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents 
punctually and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated 
taste, somewhat heavy, and often mconvenient, 
but full of the solemn magnificence of former 
times ; fitted up with rich though faded tapestry, 
unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy gorgeous 
old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, 
extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting halls, 
all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, 
of which the modern festivity at the manor-house 
is but a shadow. There are, however, complete 
suites of rooms apparently deserted and time- 
worn ; and towers and turrets tliat are tottering 
to decay ; so that in high winds there is danger 
of their tumbling about the ears of the house- 
hold. 

John has frequently been advised to have the 
old edifice thoroughly overhauled ; and to have 
eome of the useless parts pulled down, and the 
others strengthened with their materials ; but the 
old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. 
He swears the house is an excellent house — fliat 



:onN BULL. 419 

it 18 tiglit and weather-proof, and not to be ohaken 
by tempeiiits — that it has stood for several hun- 
dred years, and, therefore, is not Hkely to tumble 
down now — that, as to its being inconvenient, 
his family is accustomed to the inconveniences, 
and would not be comfortable without them — 
tiiat, as to its unwieldy size and irregular con- 
struction, these result from its being the growth 
of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom 
of every generation — that an old family, like his, 
requires a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart 
families may live in modem cottages and snug 
boxes ; but an old English family should inhabit 
an old English manor-house. If you point out 
any part of the building as superfluous, he insists 
that it is material to the strength or decoration of 
the rest, and the harmony of the whole ; and 
swears that the parts are so built into each other, 
that, if you pull down one, you run the risk of 
having the whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a 
great disposition to protect and patronize. He 
thinks it indispensable to the dignity of an ancient 
and honorable family to be bounteous in its ap- 
pointments, and to be eaten up by dependents ; 
and so, partly from pride and partly from kind- 
heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give 
shelter and maintenance to his superannuated ser- 
vants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other ven- 
erable family establishments, his manor is encum- 
bered by old retainers whom he cannot turH off, 
and an old style which he caimot lay dov\'n. Mia 



420 THE SKETCH-BO LK. 

mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and 
with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large for 
its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of 
use in housing some useless personage. Groups 
of veteran beef- eaters, gouty pensioners, and 
retired heroes of the buttery and the larder, are 
seen lolling about its walls, crawling over its 
lawns, dozing under its trees, or smining them- 
selves upon the benches at its doors. Every office 
and out-house is garrisoned by these supernume- 
raries and their families ; for they are amazingly 
prolific, and when they die off, are sure to leave 
Jolm a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided 
for. A mattock camiot be struck against the most 
mouldering tumble - down tower, but out pops, 
fi'om some cranny or loop-hole, the gray pate of 
some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at 
John's expense all his life, and makes the most 
grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof 
from over the head of a worn-out servant of the 
family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart 
never can withstand; so that a man, who has 
faitlifully eaten his beef and pudding all Lis life, 
is sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard 
in his old days. 

A great part of his park, aLso, is turned into 
paddocks, where liis broken-down chargers are 
tiu*ned loose to graze undisturbed for the remain- 
der of' their existence, — a worthy example of 
grateful recollection, wliich if some of his neigh- 
bors were to imitate, would not be to their dis- 
credit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures 
V) pouit out these old steeds to his visitors, tc 



JOHN BULL. 421 

dwell oa their good qualities, extol their past 
services, and boast, with some little vainglory, 
of the perilous adventures and hardy exploits 
through which they have carried liira. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration 
for family usages, and family incumbrances, to a 
whimsical extent. His manor is infested by gangs 
of gypsies ; yet he "will not suffer them to be 
driven off, because they have infested the place 
time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon 
every generation of the family. He will scarcely 
permit a dry branch to be lopped from the great 
trees that surround the house, lest it should molest 
the rooks, that have bred there for centuries. Owls 
have taken possession of the dove-cot ; but they 
are hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed. 
Swallows have nearly choked up every chimney 
with their nests ; martins build in every frieze 
and cornice ; crows flutter about the towers, and 
perch on every weathercock ; and old gray-headed 
rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, 
running in and out of their holes undauntedly in 
broad daylight. In short, John has such a rever- 
ence for everything that has been long in the 
family, that he will not hear even of abuses being 
reformed, because they are good old family abuses 

All these whims and habits have concurred wo- 
folly to drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as 
he prides himself on punctuality in money mattei-s 
and wishes to maintain his credit in the neighbor 
Uood, they have caused him great perplexity in 
meeting his 3ngagements. This, too, has been 
ncreased by the altercations and heart-burnings 



422 rnE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Tvhicli ai'e continually taking place in 'his family 
HL^t children have been brought up to different 
callings, and are of different ways of thinking ; and 
as they have always been allowed to speak thcii 
minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the priv- 
ilege most clamorously in the present posture of 
his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the 
race, and are clear that the old establishment 
should be kept up in all its state, whatever may 
be the cost ; others, who are more prudent and 
considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench 
his expenses, and to put his whole system of 
housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He 
has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen to 
their opinions, but their wholesome advice has 
been completely defeated by the obstreperous con- 
duct of one of his sons. Tliis is a noisy, rattle- 
pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects 
his business to frequent ale-houses, is the orator 
of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the 
poorest of liis father's tenants. No sooner does 
he hear any of his brothers mention reform or 
retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words 
out of their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. 
When his tongue is once going, nothing can stop 
it. He rants about the room ; hectors the old 
man about his spend thi-ift practices ; ridicules his 
tastes and pursuits ; insists that he shall turn the 
old servants out-of-doors ; give the broken-down 
horses to the hounds ; send the fat chaplain pack 
ing, and take a field-preacher in his place, — nay, 
that the whole family mansion shall be levelled 
idth the ground, and a plain one of brick an'^ 



JOHN BULL. 423 

mortar built in its place. He rails 1 1 every social 
eutertainraent and family festivity, and skulks 
away growling to the ale-house whenever an 
equipage di'ives up to the door. Though con- 
stantly complaining of the emptiness of his piu'se, 
yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money 
in these tavern convocations, and even nins up 
scores for the liquor over which he preaches about 
his father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such 
thwarting agrees with the old cavalier's fiery tem- 
perament. He has become so irritable, from re- 
peated crossings, that the mere mention of re- 
trenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl be- 
tween him and the tavern oracle. As the latter 
is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipKne, 
having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they 
have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at 
times run so high, that John is fain to call in the 
aid of his son Tom, an officer who has served 
abroad, but is at present living at home, on half- 
pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gen- 
tleman, right or wrong; likes nothing so much 
as a racketing, roistering life ; and is ready at a 
wink or nod, to out sabre, and flourish it over the 
orator's head, if he dares to array himself against 
paternal authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got 
nbroad, and ai*e rare food for scandal in John's 
neighborhood. People begin to look wise, and 
shake their heads, whenever his affairs are men- 
tioned. They all " hope that matters are not so 
b,ad with him as represented ; but when a man's 



424 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

own cliildi'en begin to rail at his extravagan«3e, 
things must be badly managed. They understand 
he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is con 
tinually dabbling with money-lenders. He ia 
certainly an open-handed old gentleman, but they 
fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they never 
knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, 
racing, revelling, and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. 
Bull's estate is a very fine one, and has been in 
the family a long time ; but, for all that, they 
have known many finer estates come to the ham- 
mer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these 
pecuniary emban-assments and domestic feuds 
have had on the poor man himself. Instead of 
that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face, 
which he used to present, he has of late become 
as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. 
His scarlet gold -laced waistcoat, which bellied 
out so bravely in those prosperous days when he 
sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about 
him like a mainsail in a calm. His leather 
breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and appar- 
ently have much ado to hold up the boots that 
yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his 
three-cornered hat on one side ; flourishing his 
cudgel, and bringing it down every moment with 
a hearty thump upon the ground ; looking every 
one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave 
of a catch or a drinking song ; he now goes about 
whistling thoiightfully to himself, with his head 
irooping down, liis CMdgel tucked under his arm, 



JOHN BULL. 425 

and his bands tl j'ust to tlie bottom of his breeches 
pockets, which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at pres. 
ent ; yet for all this the old fellow's spirit is a| 
tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop the least 
expression of sympathy or concern, he takes fire 
in an instant ; swears that he is the richest and 
stoutest fellow in the country ; talks of laying out 
large sums to adorn his house or buy another es- 
tate ; and ^vith a valiant swagger and grasping 
of liis cudgel, longs exceeduigly to have another 
bout at quarter-staff. 

Though there may be something rather whim 
eical in all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon 
John's situation without strong feelings of interest. 
With all his odd humors and obstinate prejudices, 
he is a sterlmg-hearted old blade. He may not 
be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks him- 
self, but he is at least twice as good as his neigh- 
bors represent him. His virtues are all his own ; 
all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very 
faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. 
His extravagance savors of liis generosity ; his 
quarrelsomeness of his courage ; his creduUty of 
his open faith ; his vanity of his pride ; and hia 
bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the re- 
dundancies of a rich and liberal character. He 
is like his own oak, rough without, but sound and 
Bolid within ; whose bark abounds with excres- 
cences in proportion to the growth and grandeur 
of the timber ; and whose branches make a fear- 
ful groaning and murmuring in the least storm, 
from their very magnitude and luxuriance. There 



»26 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

is sometliing, too, in the appearance of his old 
family mansion that is extremely poetical and 
picturesque ; and, as long as it can be rendered 
comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to 
see it meddled with, during the present conflict 
of tastes and opinions. Some of his advisers are 
no doubt good architects, that might be of ser- 
vice ; but many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, 
when they had once got to work with their mat- 
tocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop 
until they had brouglit it to the ground, and per- 
haps bui-ied themselves among the ruins. All 
that I wish is, that John's present troubles may 
teach him more prudence in future ; — that he 
may cease to distress his mind about other peo- 
ple's affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless 
attempt to promote the good of his neighbors, 
and the peace and liappiness of the world, by dint 
of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at 
home ; gradually get his house into repair ; culti- 
vate his rich estate according to his fancy ; hus- 
band his income — if he thinks proper ; bring his 
unruly children into order — if he can ; renew 
the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long 
enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honor- 
Qble, and a merry old age. 




THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE, 42^7 




THE PRIDE OF THE VH^LAGE. 



May no wolfe howie ; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
Love kept it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

iN the course of an excursion through cue 
of the remote counties of England, I 
had struck into one of those cross-roads 
that lead through the more secluded parts of the 
country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, 
the situation of which was beautifully rural and 
retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity 
about its inhabitants, not to be found in the vil- 
lages which lie on the great coach-roads. I deter- 
mined to pass the night there, and, having taken 
an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neigh- 
boring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travel- 
lers, soon led me to the church, which stood at a 
little distimce from the village. Indeed, it was 
on object of some curiosity, its old tower being 
completely overrun with ivy, so that only here 
and there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray 
wall, or a fantastically carved ornament, peered 
thro'igh the verdant covering. It was a lovely 



428 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

« 

evening. The early part of the day hai been dark 
and showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared 
up ; and though sullen clouds still hung overhead, 
yet there was a broad tract of golden sky in tho 
west, from which the setting sun gleamed through 
the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature with a 
melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting 
hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins and 
sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity 
of his decline, an assurance that he will rise 
again in glory. 

I had seated myself on a half- sunken tomb- 
stone, and was musing, as one is apt to do at this 
sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes and early 
friends, — on those who were distant and those 
who were dead, — and indulging in that kind of 
melancholy fancying which has in it something 
sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then 
the stroke of a bell from the neighboring tower 
fell on my ear ; its tones were in unison with the 
scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my 
feelings ; and it was some time before I recol- 
lected that it must be tolling the knell of some 
new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across 
the village green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; 
was lost, and reappeared through the breaks of 
the hedges, until it passed the place where I Avaa 
Bitting. Tlie pall was supported by young girls, 
dressed in white ; and another, about the age ot 
seventeen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of 
white flowers : a token that the deceased was a 
young and unmarried female. The corpse was 



THE PRIDE OF TEE VILLAGE. 429 

followed by the parents. They were a venerable 
couple of the better order of peasantry. The 
father seemed to repress his feelings ; but his 
Gxed eye, contracted brow, and deeply furrowed 
face showed the struggle that was passing within. 
His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with 
the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

1 followed the funeral into the church. Th^ 
bier was placed in the centre-aisle, and the chap- 
let of white flowers, with a pair of white gloves, 
were hung over the seat which the deceased had 
occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of 
the funeral service; for who is so fortunate as 
never to have followed some one he has loved to 
the tomb ? but when performed over the remains 
of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the 
bloom of existence, what can be more affecting ? 
At that simple but most solemn consignment of 
the body to the grave — " Earth to earth — ashes 
to ashes — dust to dust!" — the tears of the 
youthful companions of the deceased flowed un- 
restrained. The father still seemed to struggle 
with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the 
assurance that the dead are blessed which die in 
the Lord ; but the mother only thought of her 
child as a flower of the field cut down and 
withered in the midst of its sweetness ; she was 
like Rachel, " mourning over her children, and 
would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole 
story of the deceased. It was a simple one, and 
Buch as has often been told. She had been tlie 



430 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

beauty and pride of the village. Her ftxther had 
once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in 
circumstances. This was an only child, and 
brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity of 
rural life. She had been the pupil of the village 
pastor, the favorite lamb of his little flock. The 
good man watched over her education with pater- 
nal care ; — it was limited, and suitable to the 
sphere in which she was to move ; for he only 
sought to make her an ornament to her station in 
life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness 
and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption 
from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a na^ 
ural grace and delicacy of character, that accorded 
with the fragile loveliness of her form. She ap- 
peared like some tender plant of the garden, 
blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of 
the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and ac- 
knowledged by her companions, but without Qiwy ; 
for it was surpassed by the unassuming gentleness 
and winning kindness of her manners. It might 
be truly said of her, — 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 

Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems 
But smacks of something greater than herself; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spota 
which still retain some vestiges of old English 
customs. It had its rural festivals and holiday 
pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance 
of tlie once popular rites of May. These, indeed, 
had been promoted by its present pastor, who wa^' 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 431 

R lover of old customs, and one of those siiiiplo 
Ciiristians that think their mission fulfilled by 
promoting joy on earth and good-will among man- 
kind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from 
year to year in the centre of the village green ; 
on May-day it was decorated with garlands and 
streamers ; and a queen or lady of the May was 
appointed, as in former times, to preside at the 
sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. 
Tlie picturesque situation of the village, and the 
fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract 
the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on 
one May -day, was a young officer, Avhose regi- 
ment had been recently quartered in the neigh- 
borhood. He was charmed with the native taste 
that pervaded this village pageant ; but, above 
all, with the dawning loveliness of the queen of 
May. It was the village favorite, who was 
crowned ^vith flowers, and blushing and smiling 
in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence 
and dehght. The artlessness of rural habits en- 
abled him readily to make her acquaintance ; he 
gradually won his way into her intimacy ; and 
paid his court to her in that unthinking way in 
which young officers are too apt to trifle with rus- 
tic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle 
or alarm. He never even talked of love : but 
there are modes of making it more eloquent than 
language, and which convey it subtilely and irre- 
Bistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the 
tone of voice, the thousand tendenesscs which 
emanate from every word, and look, and action, — 



432 THE tiKETCn-BOOK. 

these form the true eloquence of love, and can 
always be felt and understood, but never de* 
Bcribed. Can we wonder that they should readily 
win a heart, young, guileless, and susceptible ? 
As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she 
scarcely inquired what was the growing passion 
that was absorbing every thought and feeling, or 
what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, 
looked not to tlie future. When present, his looks 
and words occupied her whole attention ; when 
absent, she thought but of what had passed at 
their recent interview. She would wander with 
him through the green lanes and rural scenes of 
the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties 
m nature ; he talked in the language of polite 
and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the 
witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, 
between the sexes, more pure than this innocent 
girl's. The gallant figure of her youthful admirer, 
and the splendor of his miUtary attire, might at 
first have charmed her eye ; but it was not these 
that had captivated her heart. Her attachment 
had something in it of idolatry. She looked up 
to him as to a being of a superior order. She 
felt in his society the enthusiasm of a mind natu- 
rally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened 
to a keen perception of the beautiful and grand. 
Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune she 
thought nothing ; it was the difference of intellect, 
of dinneanor, of manners, from those of the rustic 
society to which she had been accustomed, that 
elevated him in her opinion. She would listen 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 433 

t() liim with charmed ear and downcast look of 
mute delight, and her cheek would mantle with 
enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance 
of timid admiration, it wtis as quickly withdrawn, 
and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her 
ct)i nparati ve un worthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his 
passion was mingled with feelings of a coarser 
ualure. He had begun the connection in levity ; 
for he had often heard his brother officers boast 
of their village conquests, and thought some tri- 
umph of the kind necessary to his reputation as 
a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful 
fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered 
sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and a 
dissipated life : it caught fire from the very flame 
it sought to kindle ; and before he was aware of 
the nature of his situation, he became really in 
love. 

"What was he to do ? There were the old ob- 
stacles which so incessantly occur in these heed- 
less attachments. His rank in life — the preju- 
dices of titled connections — his dependence upon 
a proud and unyielding father — all forbade him 
to thmk of matrimony : — but when he looked 
down upon this innocent being, so tender and 
confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a 
blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching mod- 
esty in her looks, that awed down every licentious 
feeling. In vam did he try to fortify himself by 
a thousand heartless examples of men of fashion, 
and to chill the glow of generous sentiment with 
that cold derisive levity with which he had heard 
28 



484 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

them talk of female virtue : whenever he came 
into her presence, she was still surrounded by 
that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin 
purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought 
can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment 
to repair to the continent completed the confusion 
of his mind. He remained for a short time in a 
state of the most painful irresolution ; he hesitated 
to communicate the tidings, until the day for 
marching was at hand ; when he gave her the 
intelligence in the course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred 
to her. It broke in at once upon her dream of 
felicity ; she looked upon it as a sudden and in- 
surmountable evil, and wept with the guileless 
simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom, 
and kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did 
he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of 
mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the 
caresses of affection. He was naturally impetu- 
ous ; and the sight of beauty, apparently yielding 
in his arms, the confidence of his power over her, 
and the dread of losing her forever, all conspired 
to overwhelm his better feelings, — he ventured 
to propose that she should leave her home, and 
be the companion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and 
blushed and faltered at his own baseness ; but so 
innocent of mind was his intended victim, that 
she was at first at a loss to comprehend his mean- 
mg ; and why she should leave her native village, 
and the hunrble roof of her parents. Wlien at 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 435 

last t!ie nature of his proposal flashed upon her 
pure mind, the effect was withering. She did not 
weep — she did not break forth into reproach — 
she said not a word — but she shrunk back 
aghast as from a viper ; gave him a look of an- 
guish that pierced to his very soul ; and, clasping 
her hands in agony, tied, as if for refuge, to her 
father's cottage. 

The otfi(;er r(;tired, confounded, humiliated, and 
repentant. It is uncertain what might have been 
the result of tlie conflict of his feelings, had not 
his thoughts been diverted by the bustle of de- 
parture. New scenes, new pleasures, and new 
companions soon dissipated his self-reproach, and 
stifled his tenderness ; yet, amidst the stir of 
camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of 
armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts 
would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural 
quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage — 
the footpath along the silver brook and up the 
hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loiter- 
ing along it, leaning on his arm, and listening to 
him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received, 
in the destruction of all her ideal world, had in- 
deed been cruel. Faintings and hysterics had at 
first shaken her tender frame, and were succeeded 
by a settled and pining melancholy. She had 
beheld from her window the m^rch of the depart- 
mg troops. She had seen her faithless lover 
borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of 
drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She 
jjtrained a last aching gaze aflor him, as the 



436 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

momiug juii glittered about his figuiB, and his 
plume waved in the breeze ; he passed away like 
a bright vision from her sight, and left her all in 
darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars 
of her after-story. It was, like other tales of 
love, melancholy. She avoided society, and wan- 
dered out alone in the walks she had most fre- 
quented with her lover. She sought, like the 
stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, 
and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in 
her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of 
an evening sitting in the porch of the village 
church ; and the milkmaids, returning from the 
fields, would now and then overhear her singing 
some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn-walk. She 
became fervent in her devotions at church ; and 
as the old people saw her approach, so wasted 
away, yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed 
air which melancholy diffuses round the form, 
they would make way for her, as for something 
spiritual, and, looking after her, would shake their 
heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to 
the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of 
rest. The silver cord that had bound her to ex- 
istence was loosed, and there seemed to be no 
more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle 
bosom had entertained resentment against her 
lo^er, il was extinguished. She was imapable 
ot Angry passions ; and in a moment of saddened 
tenderness she penned him a farewell letter. It 
ivaa couched in the simplest language, but touch- 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 437 

ing from its very simplicity. She told hiu that 
Bhe was dying, and did not conceal from liim that 
his conduct was the cause. She even depicted 
the sufferings which she had experienced ; but 
concluded with saying that she could not die in 
peace, until she had sent him her forgiveness and 
her blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined ; she could 
no longer leave, the cottage. She could only tot- 
ter to the window, where, propped up in her 
chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and 
look out upon the land.'^cape. Still she uttered 
no complaint, nor imparted to any one the mal- 
ady that was preying on her heart. She never 
even mentioned her lover's name ? but would lay 
her head on her mother's bosom and weep in si- 
lence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anxiety, 
over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flat- 
tering themselves that it might again revive to 
freshness, and that the bright unearthly bloom 
which sometimes flushed her cheek might be the 
promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them on(* 
Sunday afternoon; her hands were clasped in 
theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft 
air that stole in brought with it the fragrance of 
the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands 
had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in 
^he Bible ; it spoke of the vanity cf worldly 
things, and of the joys of heaven ; it seem(;d to 
have diffused comfort and serenity through her 
Dosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village 



488 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

church ; the bell had tolled for evening service , 
the last villager was lagging into the porch 
and everything had sunk into that hallowed still 
ness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents 
were gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sick- 
ness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over 
some faces, had given to hers the expression of 
a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue 
eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless lov- 
er ? — or were her thoughts wandering to that 
distant churchyard mto whose bosom she might 
soon be gathered ? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a 
horseman galloped to the cottage — he dismounted 
before the window — the poor girl gave a faint 
exclamation, and sunk back in her chau* : it was 
her repentant lover ! He rushed into the house, 
and flew to clasp her to his bosom ; but her 
wasted form — her deathlike countenance — so 
wan, yet so lovely in its desolation — smote him 
to the soul, and he threw himself in agony at her 
feet. She was too faint to rise — she attempted 
to extend her trembling hand — her lips moved 
as if she spoke, but no word was articulated •— 
she looked down upon him with a smile of imut- 
terable tenderness — and closed her eyes forever ! 

Such are the pai'ticulars which I gathered of 
this village story. They are but scanty, and I am 
conscious have little novelty to recommend them. 
In the present rage also for strange incident and 
high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and 
insignificant, but th(^y interested me strongly at 
the time ; and, taken in connection with the al- 



TUL PRIDE OF TEE VILLAGE. 433 

fectiug ceremony which I had just witnessed left 
a deeper impression on my mind than many cir- 
cumstances of a more striking nature. I have 
passed through the place since, and visited the 
church again, from a better motive than mere cu- 
riosity. It was a wintry evening ; the trees were 
stripped of their foHage ; the churchyard looked 
naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly 
through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had 
been planted about the grave of the village favor- 
ite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf 
uninjured. 

The church-door was open, and I stepped in. 
There hmig the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, 
as on the day of the funeral ; the flowers were 
withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been 
taken that no dust should sod their whiteness. I 
have seen many monuments, where art has ex- 
hausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the 
spectator, but I have met with none that spoke 
more touchingly to my heart than this simple but 
delicate memento of departed innocence. 



<40 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE ANGLER. 



This day dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie. 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill. 

Attending of tiis trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wottok. 



T is said that maiij 
an unlucky urchin 
is induced to run 
away from his fam- 
ily, and betake him- 
self to a seaforing 
life, from reading 
the history of Rob- 
inson Crusoe ; and 
I suspect that, in 
like manner, many 
of those worthy gen- 
tlemen who are giv- 
en to haunt the sides 
of pastoral streams, with angle-reds in hand, may 
trace the origin of their passion to the seductive 
pages of honest Izaak Walton. 1 recollect study- 
ing his " Complete Angler " several ye irs since, 
in company with a knot of friends ir Amoric^i 




VHE ANGLER. 441 

und moreover that we were all completel;y bitteu 
with the angling mania. It was early in th? 
year ; but as soon as the weather was auspicious 
and that the spring began to melt into the verg^ 
of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into 
the country, as stark mad as was ever Don Quix- 
ote from reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the 
fulness of his equipments ; being attired cap-?i-pie 
for the enterprise. He wore a broad-skirted fus- 
tian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets ; 
a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; a bas- 
ket slimg on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a 
landing-net, and a score of other inconveniences, 
only to be found in the true angler's armory. 
Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a 
matter of stare and wonderment among the coun- 
try folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as 
was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the 
goat-herds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain-brook, 
among the highlands of the Hudson ; a most un- 
fortunate place for the execution of those pisca- 
tory tactics which had been invented along the 
velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was 
one of those wild streams that lavish, among our 
romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to 
lill the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque 
Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, 
making small cascades, over which the trees threw 
their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless 
weeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, 
dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes •♦. 



442 THE SKETCH-BO ^K. 

VTOuld brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted 
shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs ; and, 
after this termagant career, would steal forth into 
open day with the most placid demure face imag- 
inable ; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a 
housewife, after filling her home with uproar and 
ill-humor, come dimpling out of doors, swimming 
and courtesying, and smiling upon all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, 
at such times, through some bosom of green 
meadow-land among the mountains ; where the 
quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tink- 
ling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the 
clover, or the sound of a wood-cutter's axe from 
the neighboring forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all 
tinds of sport that required either patience or 
adroitness, and had not angled above half an 
hour before I had completely " satisfied the senti- 
ment," and . convinced myself of the truth of 
Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is something 
like poetry — a man must be born to it. I 
hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my 
line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; 
until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed 
the day under the trees, reading old Izaak ; satis- 
fied that it was his fascinating vein of honest sim- 
plicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, 
and not the passion for angling. My companions, 
however, were more persevering in their delusion 
I have them at this moment before my eyes 
stealing along the border of the brook, where il 
lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by 



THE ANGLER. 443 

shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with 
hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely 
invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watchmg them sus- 
piciou^ily Irom his dry tree that overhangs the 
deep black mill-pond, in the gorge of the hiUs ; 
the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off 
the stone or log on which he is sunning himself; 
and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong 
as they approach, and spreading an alarm through- 
out the watery world around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching 
and creeping about for the greater part of a day, 
with scarcely an}- success, in spite of all our admi- 
rable apparatus^, a lubberly country urchin came 
down from the hills with a rod made from a branch 
of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven 
shall help me ! I believe, a crooked pin for a hook, 
baited with a vile earthworm, — and in half an 
hour caught more fish than we had nibbles through- 
out the day! 

But, above all, I recollect, the " good, honest, 
wholesome, hungry " repast, which we made under 
a beech -tree, just by a spring of pure sweet water 
that stole out of the side of a hill ; and how, when 
it was over, one of the party read old Izaak Wal- 
ton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the 
grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, 
until I fell asleep. All this may appear like mere 
egotism ; yet I cannot refrain from uttei-Ing these 
recollections, which are p^issing like a strain of 
mu3ic over my mind, and have been called up by 
an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long 
since. 



444 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the 
Alun, a beautiful little stream which flows down 
from the Welsh hills and throws itself into the Dee, 
my attention was attracted to a group seated on tho 
margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of 
a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The 
former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with 
clothes very much but very carefully patched, be- 
tokening poverty, honestly come by, and decently 
maintained. His face bore the marks of former 
storms, but present fair weather ; its furrows had 
been worn into an habitual smile ; his iron-t^ray 
locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether 
the good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher 
who was disposed to take the world as it went. 
One of his companions was a ragged wight, with 
the skulkino; look of an arrant poacher, and I '11 
warrant could find his way to any gentleman's 
fish-pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. 
The other was a tall, awkward, country lad, with 
a lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rus- 
tic beau. The old man was busy in examining 
the maw of a trout which . he had just killed, to 
discover by its contents what insects were seasi.»n- 
able for bait ; and was lecturing on the subject to 
his companions, who appeared to listen with m- 
finite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all 
" brothers of the angle," ever since I read Iznak 
Walton. They are men, he afiirms, of a " mild, 
sweet, and peaceable spirit ; '' and my esteem for 
them has been increased since I met with an old 
" Tretyse of fishing with the Angle ' in which are 
set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive 



THE ANGLER. 445 

fraternity. " Take good liede," sayeth this honest 
little tretyse, " that in going about your disport^s 
ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. 
Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for 
no covetousness to the encreasing and sparhig of 
your money only, but principally for your solace, 
and to Ciiuse the helth of your body and specyally 
of your soule." * 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran 
angler before me an exemplification of what I had 
read ; and there was a cheerful contentedness in his 
looks that quite drew me towards him. I could not 
but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped 
from one part of the brook to another ; waving his 
rod in the air, to keep the line from dragging on 
the ground or catching among the bushes ; and the 
adroitness with which he would throw his fly to any 
particular place ; sometimes skimming it lightly 
along a little rapid, sometimes casting it into one 
of those dark holes made by a twisted root or over- 
hanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to 
lurk. In the meanwhile he was giving instructions 
to his two disciples ; showing them the manner in 
which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, 
and play them along the surface of the stream. 
The scene brought to my mind the instructions of 

* From this same treatise, it would appear that angling ia 
a more industrious and devout employment than it is gener- 
ally considered. — *' For when ye purpose to go on your dis« 
poi-tes in lishynge ye will not desyre greatlye many persons 
tvilh you, which might let you of your game. And that ye 
may serve God devoutly in sayinge eftectually your custom- 
able prayers. And thus doyi'ng, ye shall eschew and also 
avoide many vices, as ydelnes, which is principal! cause to in- 
luce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." 



446 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

the sage PLscator to his scholar. The countrj 
around was of that pastoral kind which Walton ia 
fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain 
of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, 
and just where the inferior Welsh hills begin to 
swell up from among fresh-swelling meadows. The 
day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild 
and sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping 
shower, that sowed the whole earth with dia- 
monds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, 
and was so much entertained that, under pretext 
of receiving instructions in his art, I kept company 
with him almost the whole day ; wandering along 
the banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. 
He was very communicative, having all the easy 
garrulity of cheerful old age ; and I fancy was a 
little flattered by having an opportunity of display- 
ing his piscatory lore ; for who does not like now 
and then to play the sage ? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and 
had passed some ' years of his youth in America, 
particularly in Savannah, where he had entered 
into trade, and had been ruined by the indiscretion 
of a partner. He had afterwards experienced 
many ups and downs in life, until he got into the 
navy, where his leg was carried away by a cannon- 
ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This was the 
only stroke of real good-fortune he had ever ex- 
perienced, for it got him a pension, which, together 
with some small paternal property, brought him in 
a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he re- 
tired to his native village, where he lived quietly 



TEE ANGLER. 44< 

und independently ; and devoted the remainder of 
his life to the " noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton atten- 
tively, and he seemed to have imbibed all his simple 
frankness and prevalent good-humor. Though he 
had been sorely buffeted about the world, he was 
satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and beau- 
tiful. Tliough he had been as roughly used in dif 
ferent countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by 
every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every 
nation with candor and kindness, appearing to look 
only on the good side of things ; and, above all, he 
was almost the only mp.n I had ever met with who 
had been an unfortunate adventurer in America, 
and had honesty and magnanimity enough to take 
the fault to his own door, and not to curse the coun- 
try. The lad that was receiving his instructions, I 
learnt, was the son and heir apparent of a fat old 
widow who kept the village inn, and of course a 
youth of some expectation, and much courted by 
the idle gentlemanlike personages of the place. In 
taking him under his care, therefore, the old man 
had probably an eye to a privileged corner in the 
tap-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free 
of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling, if we 
could forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruel- 
ties and tortures inflicted on worms and insects, that 
tends to produce a gentleness of spirit, and a pure 
serenity of mind. As the English are methodical 
even in their recreations, and are the most scien- 
tific of sportsmen, it has been reduced among them 
to perfect rule and system. Indeed it is an amuse- 



448 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ment peculiarly adapted to the mild and highlj 
cultivated scenery of England, where every rough- 
ness has been softened away from the landscape. 
It is delightful to saunter along those limpid streams 
which wander, like veins of silver, through the 
bosom of this beautiful country ; leadhig one 
tlirough a diversity of small home scenery ; some- 
times winding- through ornamented gi'ounds ; some- 
limes brimming along through rich pasturage, 
where the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smell- 
ing flowers ; sometimes venturing in sight of vil- 
lages and hamlets, and then running capriciously 
away into shady retirements. The sweetness and 
serenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of 
the sport, gradually bring on pleasant lits of mus- 
ing, which are now and then agreeably interrupted 
by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of the 
peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, leap- 
ing out of the still water, and skimming transiently 
about its glassy surface. " When I would beget 
content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase confi- 
dence in the power and wisdom and providence of 
Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some 
gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that 
take no care, and those very many other little liv- 
ing creatures that are not only created but fed 
(man knows not how) by the goodness of the Grod 
of nature, and therefore trust in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from 
one of those ancient champions of angling, which 
breathes the same innocent and happy spirit : - - 

" Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 
Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 



THE ANGLER. 449 

Whore I may see my quill, or cork, down Rink, 
With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace; 

And on the world and my Creator think: 
Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace; 

And others spend their time in base excess 
Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 

** Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill; 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh river walk at will, 

Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil." * 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after 
hw place of a bode ; and happening to be in the 
neighborhood of the village a few evenings after- 
wards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found 
him living in a small cottage, containing only one 
room, but a perfect curiosity in its method and ar- 
rangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on 
a green bank, a little back from the road, with a 
small garden in front, stocked with kitchen-herbs, 
and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front 
of the cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. 
On the top was a ship for a weathercock. The in- 
terior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, his 
ideas of comfort and convenience having been ac- 
quired on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A ham- 
mock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the day- 
time, was lashed up so as to take but little room. 
From the centre of the chamber hung a model of a 
ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, 
a table, and a large sea-chest, formed the principal 
movables. About the wall were stuck up naval 
ballads, such as " Admiral Hosier's Ghost," " All 

* J. Davors. 
29 



45( THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

in the Downs," and " Tom Bowline," intenningled 
with pictures of sea-fights, among which the battle 
of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The 
mantelpiece was decorated with sea-shells ; over 
which hung a quadi'ant, flanked by two wood-cuts 
of most bitter - looking naval commanders. His 
implements for anghng were carefully disposed on 
nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was 
arranged his library, containing a work on angling, 
much worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd 
volume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and 
a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with 
one eye, and a parrot which he had caught and 
tamed, and educated himself, in the^ course of one 
of his voyages ; and which uttered a variety of 
sea-phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a 
veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded 
me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe ; it 
was kept in neat order, everything being " stowed 
away " with the regularity of a ship-of-war ; and 
he informed me that he " scoured the deck every 
morning, and swept it between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, 
smoking his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. 
His cat was purring soberly on the threshold, and 
his parrot describing some strange evolutions in 
an iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. 
He had been angling all day, and gave me a his- 
tory of his sport with as much minuteness as a 
general would talk over a campaign ; being par- 
ticularly animated in relating the manner in which 
he had takeu a large trout, which had completely 



THE ANGLER. 451 

tasked all his skill and wariness, and which he 
bad sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and con- 
tented old age ; and to behold a poor fellow, like 
this, after being tempest-tost through life, safely 
moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the evening 
of his days ! His happiness, however, sprung 
from within himself, and was independent of ex- 
ternal circumstances ; for he had that inexhausti- 
ble good-nature, which is the most precious gift 
of Heaven, — spreading itself like oil over the 
troubled sea of thought, and keeping the mind 
smooth and equable in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned *.hat 
he was a universal favorite in the village, and the 
oracle of the tap-room ; where he delighted the 
rustics with his songs, and, like Sinbad, astonished 
them with his stories of strange lands, and ship- 
wrecks, and sea-fights. He was much noticed too 
by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighborhood ; had 
taught several of them the art of angling ; and 
was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The 
whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, 
being principally passed about the neighboring 
streams, when the weather and season were favor- 
able ; and at other times he employed himself at 
home, preparing his fishing-tackle for the next 
campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies, 
for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sun- 
days, though he generally fell asleep during the 
sermon. He had made it his particular request 
that when he died he should be buried in a greej^ 



452 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Bpot, which he could see from his seat in chiirch, 
and which he had marked out ever since he was 
a boy, and had thought of when far from home, 
on the raging sea, in danger of being food for the 
fislies ; — it was the spot where his father and 
mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is grow- 
ing weary ; but I could not refrain from drawing 
the picture of this worthy " brother of the angle ; " 
who has made me more than ever in love with the 
tbnory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in 
tb« practice of liis art ; and I will conclude this 
rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak 
Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter's 
toaster upon my reader, " and upon all that are 
true lovers of virtue ; and dare trust in his prov- 
idence ; and be quiet ; and go a-angling." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY UOLLOW, 453 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OP THE LATE DIEDRICD 
KNICKERBOCKER. 




A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams tliat wave before the half-shut eye; 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

N the bosom of one of those spacious 
coves Avhich indent the eastern shore of 
the Hudson, at that broad expansion 
of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch 
navigators the Tappan Zee, and Avhere they 
always prudently shortened sail, and implored 
the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, 
there lies a small market -town or rural port, 
which by some is called Greensburgh, but which 
is more generally and properly known by the 
name of Tarry To^vn. This name was given, we 
are told, in former days, by the good housewives 
of the adjacent country, from the inveterate pro- 
pensity of their husbands to linger about tb^ vil- 
lage tavern on market-days. Be that as it may, 
I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to 
it for the sake of being precise and authentic. 
Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, 
there is a httle valley, or rather 'ap of land, among 
ttigh hills, which is one of the r[uietest places in 



454 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the whole world. A small brook glides thi-ough 
it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose ; 
and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping 
of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that 
ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first ex- 
ploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall 
walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. 
I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all 
nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the 
roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath 
stillness around, and was prolonged and rever- 
berated by the angry echoes. If ever I should 
wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the 
world and its distractions, and dream quietly 
away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of 
none more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the 
peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are de- 
scendants from the original Dutch settlers, this 
sequestered glen has long been known by the 
name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads 
are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout 
all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy 
influence seems to hang over the land, and to 
pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that 
the place was bewitched by a high German doc- 
tor, during the early days of the settlement; 
others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or 
wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows there be- 
fore the country was discovered by Master Hen- 
drick Hudson Certain it is, the place still con- 
tinues under the sway of some witcliing power^ 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 455 

that holds a spell over the minds of the good peo- 
ple, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. 
They are given to all kmds of marvellous be^ 
liefs ; are subject to trances and visions ; and 
frequently see strange sights, and hear music 
and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood 
abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twi- 
light superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare 
oftener across the valley than in any other part 
of the country, and the nightmare, with her 
whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene 
of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this 
enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in- 
chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition 
of a figure on horseback without a head. It is 
said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, 
whose head had been carried away by a cannon- 
ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolu- 
tionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by 
the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of 
night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts 
are not confined to the valley, but extend at times 
to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicin- 
ity of a church at no great distance. Indeed 
certain of the most authentic historians of those 
parts, who have been careful in collecting and col- 
lating the floating facts concerning tiiis spectre, 
allege that the body of the trooper, liavmg been 
buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to 
the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head ; 
ftnd that the rushing speed with which he some- 
times passes along the Hollow, like a midnight 



456 TEE SKETCE-BOOK. 

blast, is owing to his being belated, and in » 
lurry to get back to the church yard before day- 
break. 

Such is tlie general purport of this legendary 
superstition, which has furnished materials for 
many a wild story in that region of shadows ; and 
the spectre is known, at all the country firesides, 
by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity 
1 have mentioned is not confined to the native 
inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously im- 
bibed by every one who resides there for a time. 
However wide awake they may have been before 
they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in 
a little time, to inhale the witching influence of 
the air, and begin to grow imagmative, to di'eam 
dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot Tvith all possible 
laud ; for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, 
found here and there embosomed in the great 
State of New York, that population, manners, and 
customs remain fixed ; while the great torrent 
of migration and improvement, which is making 
such incessant changes in other parts of this rest- 
less country, sweeps by them unobserved. They 
are like those little nooks of still water which 
border a rapid stream ; where we may see the 
straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or 
slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undis- 
turbed by the rush of the passing current. Though 
many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
ihades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY UOLLOW. 457 

I sliouUl not still find the same trees and the 
«ame families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a re- 
mote period of American histoiy, that is to say, 
some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the 
name of Ichabod Crane ; who sojourned, or, as ho 
expressed it, " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the 
purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. 
I£e was a native of Connecticut, a State which 
supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as 
well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 
legions of frontier woodsmen and country school- 
masters. The cognomen of Crane was not uiap- 
plicable to his person. He was tall, but exceed- 
mgly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, 
feet that might have served for shovels, and his 
whole frame most loosely hung togetlier. His 
head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, 
large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, 
so that it looked like a weathercock perched 
upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind 
blew. To see him striding along the profile of 
a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging 
and fluttering about him, one might have mis« 
taken him for the genius of famine descending 
upon the eai-th, or some scarecrow eloped from a 
cornfield. 

His school -house was a low building of one 
laige room, rudely constructed of logs ; the win- 
dows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves 
of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously se- 
tiired at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the 



458 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

handle of the door, and stakes set against the 
window -shutters ; so that, though a thief might 
get in with perfect ease, he would find some em- 
barrassment in getting out : an idea most prob- 
ably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, 
from the mystery of an eel - pot. The school- 
house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situa- 
tion, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook 
running close by, and a formidable birch-tree grow- 
ing at one end of it. From hence the low mur- 
mur of liis pupils' voices, conning over their les- 
sons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, 
like the hum of a bee-hive ; interrupted now and 
then by the authoritative voice of the master, in 
the tone of menace or command ; or, peradven- 
ture, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he 
urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path 
of knowledge. Truth to say, he w^as a conscien- 
tious man, and ever bore in mind the golden 
maxim, " Spare the rod and spoil the child." — 
Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not 
spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he 
was one of those cruel potentates of the school, 
who joy in the smart of* their subjects ; on the 
contrary, he administered justice with discrimina- 
tion rather than severity, taking the burden off 
the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of 
the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that 
winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed 
by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were 
satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some 
little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skiiieti Dutch 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 45& 

archill, wlio sulked and swelled and gi-ew dogged 
and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called 
" doing his duty " by their parents ; and he nevei 
inflicted a chastisement without following it by the 
assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urcliin, 
that " he would remember it, and thank him for it 
the longest day he had to live." 

When school-hours were over, he was even the 
companion and playmate of the larger boys ; and 
on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the 
smaller ones home, Avho happened to have pretty 
sisters, or good housewives lor mothers, noted for 
the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved 
him to keep on good terms ^vith his pupils. The 
revenue arising from his school was small, and 
would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 
with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, 
though lank, had the dilating powers of an ana- 
conda ; but to help out his maintenance, he was, 
according to country custom in those parts, board- 
ed and lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose 
children he instructed. With these he lived suc- 
cessively a week at a time ; thus going the rounds 
of the neighborhood, Avith all his worldly effects 
tied up in a cotten handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the 
purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to con- 
sider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and 
schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various 
ways of rendering himself both useful and agree- 
able, lie assisted the farmers occasionally in the 
lighter labors of tlunr farms ; helped to make hay ; 
mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; 



460 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

drove the cows from pastiu'e ; and cut wood fo* 
the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the domi- 
nant dignity and absolute sway with which he 
lorded it in his little empire, the school, and be- 
came wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He 
found favor in tlie eyes of the mothers, by pet- 
ting the childi'en, particularly the youngest ; and 
like the lion bold, wliich wliilom so magnani- 
mously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a 
child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot 
for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the 
singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up 
many bright shillings by instructing the young 
folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little 
vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in 
front of the church-gallery, with a band of chosen 
singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely 
carried away the palm from the parson. Certain 
it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of 
the congregation ; and there are pecidiar quavers 
still to be heard in that church, and which may 
even be heard half a mile off, quite to the oppo- 
site side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morn- 
ing, Avhich are said to be legitimately descended 
from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers 
little makeshifts in that ingenious way which ia 
commonly denominated " by hook and by crook," 
the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, 
and was thought, by all who understood notliing 
of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully 
easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of soma 



TEE LEOLND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 461 

importance in the female circle of a iHiral neigh 
borhood ; being considered a kind of idle, gentle* 
man-like personage, of vastly superior taste and 
accomplishments to the rough country swains, and. 
indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. 
His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some 
little stir at the tea-table of a farm-house, and the 
addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweet- 
meats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea- 
pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly 
happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. 
How he would figure among them in the church- 
yard, between services on Sundays ! gathering 
grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun 
the suri'ounding trees ; reciting for their amuse- 
ment all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; or saun- 
tering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks 
of the adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful 
coimtry bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying 
his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, lie was a kind 
of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget 
of local gossip from house to house : so that his 
appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. 
He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a 
man of great erudition, for he had read several 
books quite through, and was a perfect master 
of Cotton Mather's "History of New England 
Witchcraft," in which, by the way, he most firm- 
ly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small 
Bhrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite 
for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, 



462 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

* 
were equally extraordinary ; and both had beeo 
mcreased by his residence in this spellbound re- 
gion. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his 
capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after 
his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to 
stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering 
the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, 
and there con over old Mather's direful tales, un- 
til the gathering dusk of the evening made the 
printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, 
as he wended his way, by swamp, and stream, 
and awful woodland, to the farm-house where he 
happened to be quartered, every sound of na- 
ture, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited 
imagination ; the moan of the whippoorwill * 
from the hill-side ; the boding cry of the tree- 
toad, that harbinger of storm ; the dreary hooting 
of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the 
thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The 
fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the 
darkest places, now and then startled him, as one 
of uncommon brightness would stream across his 
path ; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a 
beetle came winging his blundering flight against 
him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the 
ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 
witch's token. His only resource on such occa- 
sions, either to drown thought or drive away evil 
spirits, \ias to sing psalm -tunes; and the good 
people' of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their 

* The whippoorwill is a bird which is only heard at 
night. It receives its name froai its note, which is Hiought 
IP resemble those words. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 463 

doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, 
at hearing his nasal melody, " m linked sweetness 
long di-a\vii out," floatuig from the distant liill, or 
along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearfid pleasure was, 
to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch 
wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row 
of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, 
and Usten to their marvellous tales of ghosts and 
goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, 
and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and 
particularly of the headless horseman, or Gallop- 
ing Hessian of the Hollow, as they someumes 
called him. He would dehght them equally by 
his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the du-eful 
omens and portentous sights and sounds in the 
air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Con- 
necticut ; and would frighten them wofuUy with 
speculations upon comets and shooting stars, and 
with the alarming fact that the world did abso- 
lutely turn round, and that they were half the 
time topsy-turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while 
snugly cuddling in the chimney-corner of a cham- 
ber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crack- 
ling wood-fire, and where, of course, no spectre 
dared to show his face, it was dearly purchased 
by th3 terrors of his subsequent walk homewai'ds. 
What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path 
amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy 
night ! — With what wistful look did he eye e\ eiy 
trembling ray of light streaming across the waste 
fields from some distant window ! — How often 



164 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

was he appalled by some shnib covered Tvitb 
«now, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very 
path ! — How often did he shrmk with curdling 
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty 
crust beneath his feet ; and dread to look over 
his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth 
being tramping close behind him ! — and how 
often was he thrown into complete dismay by 
some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in 
the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on 
one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the 
night, phantoms of the mind that walk in dark- 
ness ; and though he had seen many spectres in 
his time, and been more than once beset by Satau 
in divers shapes, m his lonely perambulations, yet 
daylight put an end to all these evils ; and he 
would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite 
of the devil and all his works, if his path had not 
been crossed by a being that causes more per- 
plexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and 
the whole race of witches put together, and that 
was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, 
\>ne evening in each week, to receive his instruc- 
tions in psahnody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the 
daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch 
fanner. She was a blooming lass of fresh eigh- 
teen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting 
and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, 
and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, 
but her vast expectations. She was withal a little 
of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 465 

dress, which was a mixture of ancient and mod- 
em fashions, as most suited to set off her chai*ms. 
She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, 
which her great-great-grandmother had brought 
over from Saardam ; the tempting stomacher of 
the olden time ; and withal a provokhigly short 
IH'tti.coat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in 
the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart 
towards the sex; and it is not to be wondered at 
that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his 
eyes ; more especially after he liad visited her in 
her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel 
was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, 
liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent 
either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boun- 
daries of his own farm ; but witliin those every- 
thing was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He 
was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it ; 
and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance 
rather than the style in which he lived. His 
stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hud- 
son, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooka 
m which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nest- 
ling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches 
over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring 
of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, 
formed of a barrel ; and then stole sparkling 
away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, 
that bubbled along among alders and dwarf wil- 
lows. Hard by tlie farm-house was a vast barn^ 
that might have served for a chinch ; every win 
dow and cievice of which seemed bursting forth 

30 



466 rUE SKATCJl-BOOK 

with the treasures of the farm ; the fiail was 
busily resounding within it from morning till 
night ; swallows and martins skimmed twittering 
about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with 
one eye tui-ned up, as if watching the weather, 
eome with their heads under their wings, or 
buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and 
cooing, and bowing about their dames, were en- 
joying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldly 
porkers were grunting in the repose and abun- 
dance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, now 
and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snufF 
the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were 
riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole 
fleets of ducks ; regiments of turkeys were gob- 
bling through the farm-yard, and guinea fowls 
fretting about it, hke ill-tempered housewives, 
with their peevish discontented cry. Before the 
barn-door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern 
of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, 
clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in the 
pride and gladness of his heart — sometimes tear- 
ing up the earth with his feet, and then gener- 
ously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and 
children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had 
discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked 
upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter 
fare. In his devouring mind's eye he pictured 
to himself every roasting-pig running about with 
a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth ; 
the pigeons Avere snugly put to bed in a comfort- 
able pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust j 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 467 

rtie geese Avere swimming in their own gravy ; and 
the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug mar- 
ried couples, with a decent competency of onion- 
sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the 
future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing 
, ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed 
up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, perad- 
venture, a necklace of savory sausages ; and even 
bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his 
back^ in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if 
craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit 
disdained to ask while livinoj. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, aiiQ 
as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat 
raeadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of 
buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchard bur- 
dened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the 
warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned 
after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, 
and his imagination expanded with the idea how 
they might be readily turned into cash, and the 
money invested in immense tracts of wild land, 
and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his 
busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre- 
sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole 
family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon 
loaded with household trumpery, with pots and 
kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld himself 
bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, 
Betting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord 
knows where. 

When he entered the house, the conquest of 
his heart was complete. It was one of those spa- 



46b TUK SKETCU-BOOK. 

cious flirin-liouses, with higli-ridged, but lowiy^ 
sloping roofs, built iii the style handed down from 
the first Dutch settlers ; the low projecting eaves 
forming a piazza along the front, capable of being 
closed up m bad weather. Under this wei-e hung 
flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and 
nets for fishing in tlie neighboring river. Benches 
were budt along the sides for summer use ; and 
a great spiiming-wheel at one end, and a chura 
at the other, showed the various uses to which 
this important porch might be devoted. From 
tills piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the 
hall, which formed the centre of the mansion arid 
the place of usual residence. Here, rows of re- 
splendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, daz- 
zled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of 
wool ready to be spun ; in another a quantity of 
linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; ears of Lidian 
corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, 
hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled 
with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left 
ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where 
the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables 
shone like mirrors ; and irons, with their accom« 
panying shovel and tongs, glistened from their 
covert of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges and conch- 
ehells decorated the mantel-piece ; strings of va- 
rious colored birds' eggs were suspended above it ; 
a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of 
the room, and a corner-cupboard, knowmgly left 
open, displayed immense treasures of old silver 
Wid well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLO W. 469 

these regions of delight, the peace of his mind 
was at an end, and his only study was how tc 
gain the affections of the peerless daughter of 
Van Tassel. li\ this enterprise, however, he had 
more real difficulties than generally fell to the 
lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had 
anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and 
such like easily conquered advers^u'ies, to contend 
with ; and had to make his way merely thi'ough 
gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant, to 
the castle-keep, where the lady of his heart was 
confined ; all which he achieved as easily as a 
man would carve his way to the centre of a 
Christmas pie ; and then the lady gave him her 
hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the 
contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a 
country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims 
and caprices, which were forever presenting new 
difficulties and impediments ; and he had to en- 
counter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh 
and blood, the numerous rustic admii-ers, who be- 
set QYQry portal to her heart ; keeping a watch- 
ful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to 
fly out in the common cause against any new 
competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, 
roaring, roistering blade, of the name of Abra 
ham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, 
Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, 
which rang with his feats of strength and hardi- 
hood. He was broad-shouldered, and double- 
jointed, Avith short curly black hair, and a bluff 
but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled 



470 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean 
fi'ame and great powers of limb, he had received 
the nickname of Brom Bones, by which he wtis 
universally known. He was famed for great 
knowledge and skill, in horsemanship, being as 
dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was 
foremost at all races and cockfights ; and, with 
the ascendency which bodily strength acquires in 
rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting 
his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with 
an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. 
He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic ; 
but had more mischief than ill-will in his com- 
position ; and, with all his overbearing roughness, 
there was a strong dash of waggish good-humor 
at bottom. He had three or four boon compan- 
ions, who regarded him as their model, and at 
the head of whom he scoured the country, attend- 
ing every scene of feud or merriment for miles 
round. In cold weather he was distinguished by 
a fur cap, surmounted ^vith a flaunting fox's tail ; 
and when the folks at a country gathering de- 
scried this well-known crest at a distance, whisk- 
ing about among a squad of hard riders, they 
always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew 
would be heard dashing along past the farm- 
houses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like 
a troop of Don Cossacks ; and the old dames, 
startled out of their sleep, would listen for a mo- 
ment till the hurry-scuny had clattered by, and 
then exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones and 
his gang ! " The neighbors looked upon him with 
t mixture (f awe, admiration, and good- will j 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 471 

Wid when any madcap prank, or rustic brawL 
occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, 
and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom 
of* it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled 
O'it the blooming Katrina for the object of his 
uncouth gallantries ; and though his amorous toy- 
ings were something like the gentle caresses and 
endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that 
she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Cer- 
tain it is, his advances were signals for rival can- 
didates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross 
a lion in his amours ; insomuch, that, when his 
horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a 
Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was 
courting, or, as it is termed, " sparking," within, 
all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried 
the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom 
Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering 
all tilings, a stouter man than he would have 
shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man 
would have despaired. He had, however, a happy 
mixture of pliability and perseverance in his na- 
ture ; he was in form and spirit like a supple- 
jack — yielding, but tough ; though he bent, he 
never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the 
slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away 
- — jerk ! he was as erect, and carried his head as 
high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly agauist his rival 
m)uld have been madness ; for he was not a man 
io be thwarted in his amours, any more than that 



472 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Btormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made 
his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating 
manner. Under cover of his character of suig- 
mg-master, he had made frequent visits at the 
farm-house ; not that he had anything to appre- 
hend from the meddlesome interference of par- 
ents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the 
path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy, 
indulgent soul ; he loved his daughter better even 
than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an 
excellent father, let her have her way in every- 
thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough 
to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage 
her poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks 
and geese are foolish things, and must be looked 
after, but girls can take care of themselves. 
Thus while the busy dame bustled about the 
house, or plied her spinnuig-wheel at one end of 
the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his 
evening pipe at the other, watching the achieve- 
ments of a little wooden warrior, who, armed 
with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly 
fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. Li 
the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit 
with the daughter by the side of the spring un- 
der the great elm, or sauntering along in the twi- 
light, — that horn' so favorable to the lover's elo- 
quence. 

1 profess not to know how women's hearts are 
wooed and won. To me they have always been 
matters of riddle and admiration. Son^re seem to 
have but one vulnerable point, or door of access ; 
while o/Jiers have a thousand avenues, and maj 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 473 

be captured in a tliousand difFereut ways. It is 
a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a 
Btill greater proof of generalship to maintain pos- 
session of the latter, for the man must battle for 
his fortress at every door and window. He who 
wins a thousand common hearts is therefore en- 
titled to some renown ; but he who keeps undis- 
puted sway over the heart of a coquette, is in- 
deed a hero. Certain it is, this was. not the ciise 
with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from 
the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, 
the interests of the former evidently declined ; his 
horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on 
Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose 
between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hol- 
low. 

Brora, who had a degree of rough chivalry in 
his nature, would fain have carried matters to 
open warfare, and have settled their pretensions 
to the lady according to the mode of those most 
concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant 
of yore — by single combat ; but Ichabod was 
too conscious of the superior might of his adver- 
sary to enter the lists against him : he had over- 
heard a boast of Bones, that he would " double 
the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of 
his OAVTi school-house ; " and he was too wary to 
give him an opportimity. There was something 
extremely provoking in tliis obstinately pacific 
system ; it left Brom no alteraative but to draw 
upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposi- 
tion, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon 
his rival. Ichabod became the object of wliimsi 



474 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cal persecution to Bones and his gang of rough 
riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful do- 
mams; smoked out his singing-school, by stop- 
ping up the chimney ; broke into the school-house 
at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of 
withe and window-stakes, and turned everything 
topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmaster began 
to think all the witches in the country held 
their meetings there. But what was still more 
annoying, Brom took opportunities of turning him 
into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had 
a scoundrel dooj whom he taus^ht to whine in the 
most ludicrous mamier, and mtroduced as a rival 
of Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. 

Li this way matters went on for some time, 
without producing any material effect on the rela- 
tive situation of the contending powers. On a 
fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive 
mood, sat entlii'oned on the lofty stool whence he 
usually watched all the concerns of his little 
literary realm. In his hand he swayed a 
ferule, that sceptre of despotic power ; the birch 
of justice reposed on three nails, behind the 
thi'one, a constant terror to evil-doers ; while on 
the desk before him might be seen sundry con- 
traband articles and prohibited weapons, detected 
upon the persons of idle urcliins ; such as half 
munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, 
and whole legions of rampant little paper game- 
cocks. Apparently there had been some appall- 
ing act of justice recently inflicted, for his schol- 
ars were all busily in'^ent upon theu' books, or 
plyly whiapermg behind them with one eye kepi 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 475 

flpon the master ; and a kind of buzzing still- 
ness reigned throughout the school-room. It was 
suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a ne- 
gro, in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, a round- 
cro^vned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mer- 
cury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, 
half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope 
by way of halter. He came clattering up to the 
school-door with an invitation to Ichabod to at- 
tend a merry-making or "quilting frolic," to be 
held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and 
having delivered his message with that air of im- 
portance, and effort at fine language, which a ne- 
gro is apt to display on petty embassies of the 
kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen 
scampering away up the Hollow, full of the im- 
portance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late 
quiet school -room. The scholars were hurried 
thi'ough their lessons, without stopping at trifles ; 
those who were nimble skipped over half with 
impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart 
appUcation now and then in the rear, to quicken 
their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books 
were flung aside without bemg put away on the 
shelves, mkstands were overturned, benches thrown 
down, and the whole school was turned loose an 
hour before the usual tune, bursting forth like 
a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing 
about the green, in joy at their early emancipa- 
tion. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an ex- 
tra half-hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing 



fc/6 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

up his best and indeed only suit of rusty black, 
and arranging ids looks by a bit of broken look- 
ing-glass, that hnng up in the school-house. That 
he might make his appearance before his mistress 
in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a 
liorse from the farmer with whom he was domi- 
ciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name 
of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, 
issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest of ad- 
ventures. But it is meet I should, in the true 
spirit of romantic story, give some account of 
the looks and equipments of my hero and his 
steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken- 
down plough-horse, that had outlived almost ev- 
erything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and 
shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a ham- 
mer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and 
knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, 
and was glaring and spectral ; but the other had 
the gleam of a genunie devil in it. Still he must 
have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may 
judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. 
He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his mas- 
ter's, the choleric Van E-ipper, who was a furious 
rider, and had infused, very probably, some of 
his own spirit into the animal; for, old and 
broken-down as he looked, there was more of the 
lurking devil in him than in any young fiUy in 
the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed 
He rode with short stiiTups, which brought his 
knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his 
sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he car- 



THL LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 477 

ried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a 
Bceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of 
his arras was not unlike the ilapping of a pair of 
wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of 
his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might 
be called ; and the skirts of his black coat flut- 
tered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was 
the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as tliey 
shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, 
and it was altogether such an apparition as is sel- 
dom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the 
sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that 
rich and golden livery which we always associate 
with the idea of abundance. The forests had put 
on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees 
of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts 
into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. 
Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their 
appearance high in the air ; the bark of the 
squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech 
and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the 
quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble- 
field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell ban- 
quets. In the fulness of their revelry, they flut- 
tered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, 
and tree to tree, capricious from the very profu- 
Bion and variety around them. There was the 
honest cocki-obhi, the favorite game of stripling 
Bportsmen, with its loud querulous notes ; and 
the twittering blackbirds flyhig in sable clouds ; 
aud the golden-winged woodpecker, with liis crim- 



478 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

SOU <3rest, his broad black gorget, and splenutd 
plumage ; and the cedar - bird, with its red-tipt 
wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro 
cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy 
coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white 
uuder-clothes, screaming and chattering, nodding 
and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on 
good terms with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, 
ever open to every symptom of culinary abun- 
dance, ranged with delight over the treasures of 
jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store 
of kpples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence 
on the trees ; some gathered into baskets and bar- 
rels for the market; others heaped up in rich 
piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld 
great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears 
peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out 
the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding ; and the 
yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up 
their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving am- 
ple prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and 
anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, 
breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he be- 
held them, soft anticipations stole over his mind 
of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished 
watli honey or treacle, by the delicate little dim- 
pled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet 
thoughts and " sugared suppositions," he jour- 
neyed along the sides of a range of hills which 
look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the 
mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 479 

broad disk down into tlie west. The wide bosom 
of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glossy, ex- 
cepting that here and there a gentle undulati(H) 
waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the dis 
tant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in 
the sky, witliout a breath of air to move them. 
The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing 
gradually into a pure apple-green, and from tliat 
into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting 
ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices 
that overhung some parts of the river, giving 
greater depth to the dark-gi-ay and purple of their 
rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the dis- 
tance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her 
sail hanging uselessly against the mast ; and as 
the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still 
water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended 
in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at 
the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found 
thronged with the pride and flower of the adja- 
cent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced 
race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stock- 
ings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. 
Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped 
caps, long-waisted shortgowns, homespun petti- 
coats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay cal- 
ico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, 
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting 
where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a 
white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation, 
riie sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows 
■jf stupendous brass buttons, and their hair gen 



480 ruE SKETCH-BOOK. 

erally queued in the ftisliion of the times, ^pe« 
ciallj if they could procure an eel-skin for the 
purpose, it bemg esteemed, throughout the coun- 
try, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the 
hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the 
scene, having come to the gathering on his favor- 
ite steed, Dai'edevil, a creature, like himself, full 
of mettle and mischief, and which no one but 
himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted 
for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds 
of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk 
of his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken 
horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world 
of chai'ms that burst upon the enraptured gaze 
of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van 
Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of bux- 
om lasses, with their luxurious display of red and 
white ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch 
country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of au 
tumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of vari- 
ous and almost indescribable kinds, known only 
to experienced Dutch housewives ! Tliere was 
the doughty doughnut, the tenderer oly koek, and 
the crisp and crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and 
short cakes, ginger-cakes and honey-cakes, and 
the whole family of cakes. And then there were 
apple-pies and peach-pies and pumpkin-pies ; be- 
sides slices of ham and smoked beef; and more- 
over delectable dishes of preserved plums, and 
peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to mention 
broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with 



THL' LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 48] 

i^wls of milk and cream, all mingled lilggledy- 
piggled}', pretty much as I have enumei-ated 
them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up its 
clouds of vapor from the midst — Heaven bless 
the mark ! I vant breath and time to discuss 
this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to 
■gtl on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane 
was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but 
did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose 
heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled 
with good cheer ; and whose spirits rose with eat- 
ing as some men's do with drink. He could not 
help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he 
ate, and chuckling w^th the possibility that he 
might one day be lord of all this scene of almost 
unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he 
thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the 
old school-house ; snap his fingers in the face of 
Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly pa- 
tron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out-of- 
doors that should dare to call him comrade! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among 
his guests with a face dilated with content and 
good-humor, round and jolly as the harvest-moou. 
His hospitable attentions were brief, but expres- 
sive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap 
on the slioulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing in- 
vitation to " fall to, and help themselves." 

And- now the sound of the music from the com- 
mon room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The 
musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had 
been the itinei-ant orchestra of the ueighborhoo*! 

31 



482 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

for more than half a century. His instnimeat 
was as old and battered as himself. The grcatei 
part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, 
accompanying every movement of the bow with a 
motion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground 
and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh coupU 
were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as mud 
as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre 
about him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely 
hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the 
room, you would have thought Saiiit Vitus himself, 
that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring be- 
fore you in person. He was the admiration of all 
the negroes ; who, having gathered, of all ages and 
sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood 
forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every 
door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, 
rolling their wliite eyeballs, and showing grinning 
rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the 
flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and 
joyous ? the lady of his heart was his partner in 
the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his 
amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smit- 
ten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by him- 
self in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was at- 
tracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old 
Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the pia^'a, 
gossiping over former times, and drawing out lojig 
Btories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at tlie time rf wliicli I am 
jpe^aking, was one of those iiighly /'avorcd plaxiu^ 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY jWLLOW, 483 

which abound with chronicle and great men. The 
British and American line had run near it during 
the "war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of ma- 
rauding, and infested with refugees, cow-hoys, and 
all khids of border chivaby. Just suiiicient time 
iiad chipsed to enable each story-teller to dress up 
Ills tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the 
indastinctness of his recollection, to make himself 
the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of DolUie jMartling, a large 
blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a 
British frigate with an old iron nine-jx-'under from 
a mud breastw^ork, only that his gun burst at the 
sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman 
who shall be nameless, bemg too rich a mynheer to 
be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White- 
plains, being an excellent master of defence, par- 
ried a musket-ball Ax-ith a small sword, insomuch 
that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, aaid 
glance off at the hilt ; in proof of which he was 
ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt 
a little bent. There wer^ several more that liad 
been equally great in the field, not one of whom 
but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand 
in bringing the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts 
and apparitions that succeeded. The neighbor- 
flood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. 
Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these 
Bheltered long-settled retreats ; but are trampled 
underfoot by the shiftincj throng that forms the 
populal ion of most of our countiy places. Besides, 
ibere is no eu'-ouragcrj^Mit for ghosts in most of oiu 



484 THE SKETCH- BO OK. 

villages, for they have scarcely had tii ae to finish 
their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves 
before their surviving friends have travelled away 
from the neighborhood ; so that when they turn out 
at night to walk their rounds, they have no ac- 
quaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the 
reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts, except m 
our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the preva- 
lence of supernatural stories in these parts was 
doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. 
There v/as a contagion in the very air that blew 
from that haunted region ; it breathed forth ax. 
atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all 
the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people 
were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual 
were doling out their wild and wonderful legendt 
Msmy dismal tales were told about funeral trains, 
and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen 
about the great tree where the unfortunate Ma- 
jor Andre was taken, and which stood in the 
neighborhood. Some mention was made also of 
the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen 
at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on 
winter nights before a storm, having perished 
there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, 
however, turned upon the favorite spectre of 
Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had 
been heard several times of late, patrolling the 
country ; and, it was said, tethered his horse 
nightly among the graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems 
dlways to have made it a favorite haunt of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY UOLLOW. 48* 

troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, sur- 
rounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from 
amonsf which its decent whitewashed walls shint 
modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming 
through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope 
descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bor 
Jered by liigh trees, between which, peeps may 
l)e caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To 
look upon its grass-grown yard, wliere the sun- 
beams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think 
that there at least the dead might rest in peace. 
On one side of the church extends a wide woody 
dell, along which raves a large brook among 
broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a 
deep black part of the stream, not far from the 
chui-ch, was formerly thi'own a wooden bridge ; 
the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were 
thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a 
gloom about it, even in the daytime, but occa- 
sioned a fearful darkness at night. This was one 
of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman ; 
and the place where he was most frequently en- 
countered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a 
most heretical disbehever in ghosts, how he met 
the horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy 
Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind liim ; 
how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill 
and swamp, until they reached the bridge ; when 
the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, 
threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang 
^way over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice 
marvellous adventiu-e of Brom Bones, who made 



t86 TUE SKETCH-BOOK, 

light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. 
He affu-med that, on returning one night from the 
neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been over- 
taken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered 
to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should 
have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin 
horse all hollow, but, just as they came to the 
church-bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished 
in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone 
with which men talk in the dark, the counte- 
nances of the listeners only now and then receiv- 
ing a casual gleam ftom the glare of a pipe, sank 
deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them 
in kind with large extracts from his invaluable 
author. Cotton Mather, and added many marvel- 
lous events that had taken place in his native 
State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which 
he had seen in his nightly walks about the Sleepy 
Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old 
farmers gathered together their families in their 
wagons, and were heard for some time rattling 
along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. 
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind 
their favorite swains, and their light-hearted 
laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, 
echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding 
fainter and fainter until they gradually died away 
— and the late scene of noise and frolic was all 
silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered be- 
hind, according to the custom of country loverS; 
to have a tctea-tete with the heiress, fully eon* 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 4B7 

riiiccd tliat lie was now on the hiirh road to suc- 
cess. What piissed at this mterview I will not 
pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Some- 
thing, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, 
for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great 
iilerval, with an air quite desolate and chop- 
fallen. — Oh, these women ! these women ! Could 
that girl have been playing otF any of her coquet- 
tish tricks ? — Was her encouragement of the 
poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her 
conquest of his rival ? — Heaven only knows, 
not I ! — Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth 
with the air of one who had been sacking a hen- 
roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without 
lookino; to the riMit or left to notice the scene of 
rural wealth on which he had so often gloated, 
he went straight to the stable, and ^^dth several 
hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most un- 
courteously from the comfortable quarters in 
wliich he was soundly sleepmg, di-eaming of moun- 
tains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of time 
thy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that 
Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued 
his travel homewards, along the sides of the lofty 
hills which rise above Tarry Town, and whicb 
he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. 
The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below 
him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indis- 
tinct waste of waters, with here and there the 
tall mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor un- 
ier the land. In the dead hush of midnight he 
oould even hear the barking of the watch-dog 



188 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it 
was so vague aiid faiiit as only to give an idea 
of his distance from this faithful companion of 
man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crow 
ing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would 
sound far, far off, from some farm-house away 
among the hills — but it was like a dreaming 
sound in his ear. No signs of life occuired near 
him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of 
a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a 
bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleep- 
ing uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his 
bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he 
had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding 
upon his recollection. The night grew darker 
and darker ; the stiirs seemed to sink deeper in 
the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them 
from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and 
dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very 
place where many of the scenes of the ghost- 
stories had been laid. In the centre of the road 
stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like 
a giant above all the other trees of the neighbor- 
hood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs 
were gnarled, and fantastic, large enough to form 
trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to 
the earth, and rising again into the air. It was 
connected with the tragical story of the unfortu- 
nate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard 
by ; and was universally known by the name of 
Major Andre's tree. The common people re- 
gardt^,d it with a mixture of respect and supersti. 



rUE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. -iSJf 

don, partly out of sympathy for the fate of it| 
ill-starred iiamesalve, and pirtly from the tales of 
strange sights and doleful lamentations told con, 
cernmg it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, liq 
began to whistle : he thought his whistle was 
answered, — it was but a blast sweeping sharply 
through the dry branches. As he approached a 
Uttle nearer, he thought he saw something wliite, 
hanguig in the midst of the tree, — he paused 
and ceased whistling ; but on looking more nar- 
rowly, perceived that it was a place where the 
tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white 
wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan, — 
his teeth chattered and his knees smote against 
the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge 
bough upon another, as they were swayed about 
by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety ; but 
new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small 
brook crossed the road, and ran into a mai'shy 
and tliickly wooded glen, known by the name of 
Wiley's swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by 
side, served for a bridge over this stream. On 
that side of the road where the brook entered the 
wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick 
with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom 
over it. To pass this bridge was the severest 
trial. It was at this identical spot that the un- 
fortunate Andre was captured, and under the 
?overt of those chestnuts and vines were the 
sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. 
Tliis has ever since been considered a haunted 



490 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Stream, and fearful are the feelings of the school 
boy who has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began 
to thump ; he summoned up, however, all his 
resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in 
the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the 
bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the per- 
verse old animal made a lateral movement, and 
ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose 
fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins 
on the other side, and kicked lustily with the con- 
trary foot : it was all in vain ; his steed started, 
it is true, but it was only to plunge to the oppo- 
site side of the road into a thicket of brambles 
and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now be- 
stowed both whip and heel upon the starveling 
ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, 
snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just 
by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly 
sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at 
this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the 
bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In 
the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin 
of the brook, he beheld something huge, mis- 
shapen, black, and towering. It stirred not, but 
seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some 
gigantic monster ready to spring upon the travel- 
ler. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue roscj upon 
his head with terror. What was to be done? 
To turn and fly was now too late ; and besides, 
what chance was there of escaping ghost or gob- 
lin, if such it was, which could ride upon the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 491 

ivings of the wind ? Siiminoniiig up, therefore, 
a show of courage, he demanded in stammering 
accents — " Who are you ? " He received no 
i-eply. He repeated his demand in a still more 
agitated voice. Still there wiis no answer. Once 
more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible 
Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth 
with mvoluntary fervor uito a psalm-tune. Just 
then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in 
motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood 
at once in the middle of the road. Though the 
night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the un- 
known might now in some degree be ascertained. 
He appeared to be a horseman of large dimen- 
sions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful 
frame. He made no offer of molestation or socia- 
bility, but kept aloof on one side of the road, 
jogging along on the blmd side of old Gunpow- 
der, who had now got over his fright and way- 
wardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange 
midnight companion, and bethought himself of 
the adventure of Brom Bones with the Gallop- 
ing Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes 
of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, 
quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag 
behind, — the other did the same. His heart 
began to sink within him; he endeavored to 
resume his psalm-tune, but his parched tongue 
tlove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not 
utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious 



492 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

compunion, that was mysterious and appalling. 
It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mount- 
ing a rising ground, which brought the figure of 
his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gi- 
gantic in height, and mufiled in a cloak, Ichabod 
was horror-struck, on perceiving that he waa 
headless ! — but his horror was still more in- 
creased, on observing that the head, which should 
have rested on his shoulders, was carried before 
him on the pommel of the saddle: his terror 
rose to desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks 
and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden 
movement, to give liis companion the slip, — but 
the spectre started full jump with him. Away 
then they dashed, through thick and thin ; stones 
flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. 
Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as 
he stretched his long lank body away over his 
horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns 
off to Sleepy HoUow; but Gunpowder, who 
seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keep- 
ing up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
headlong downhill to the left. This road leads 
through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about 
a quater of a mile, where it crosses the bridge 
famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the 
green knoll on which stands the whitewashed 
church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his 
unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; 
but just as he had got half-way through the hol- 
low, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLO W. 49? 

felt it slipping from under him. He seized it 
by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, 
but in wpM\ ; and had just time to save liimself 
by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when 
the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it tram- 
pled underfoot by his pursuer. For a moment 
the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed 
across his mind — for it was his Sunday saddle ; 
but this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin 
was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider 
that he was !) he had much ado to maintain his 
seat ; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes 
on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge 
of his horse's backbone, with a violence that he 
verily feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with 
the hopes that the church-bridge was at hand. 
The wavering reflection of a silver star in the 
bosom of the brook told him that he was not 
mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly 
glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected 
the place where Brom Bones's ghostly competitor 
had disappeared. " If I can but reach that 
bridge," thought Ichabod, " I am safe." Just 
then he heard the black steed panting and blow- 
ing close behind him ; he even fancied that lie 
felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in 
the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the 
bridge ; he thundered over the resounding planks ; 
he gained the opposite side ; and now Ichabod 
east a look behind to see if his pursuer should 
vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and 
orimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising 



194 TUE SKETCH-BOOK 

in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling hia 
head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the 
iiorrible missile, but too late. It encountered his 
cranium with a tremendous crash, — he was tum- 
bled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the 
black steed, and the goblui rider, passed by like a 
wbirl^^'ind. 

The next morning the old horse was found 
witlvout his saddle, and with the bridle under his 
t'eet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. 
Icliabod did not make his appearance at break- 
^ist ; — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The 
)oys assembled at the school-house, and strolled 
idly about the banks of the brook ; but no 
schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to 
feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Icha- 
bod, and his saddle. An inquuy was set on foot, 
and after diligent investigation they came upon 
his traces. In one part of the road leading to 
the church was found the saddle trampled in the 
dirt ; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in 
the road, and evidently at furious speed, were 
traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank 
of a broad part of the brook, where the water 
ran deep and black, was found the hat of tiie 
unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shat- 
tered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the 
schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans 
Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined 
die bundle which contained all his worldly etfc-cts 
They coi sisted of two shirts and a lialf ; two stock? 
for the neck ; a pair or two of worsted stockinfjs 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 495 

an old pair of corduroy small-clothes ; a rusiy 
razor ; a book of psalm-tunes, full of dogs' ears , 
and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and 
furniture of the school-house, tliey belonged to 
the community, excepting Cotton Mather's" His- 
tory of Witchcraft," a " New England Almanac," 
and a book of dreams and fortune-telling ; in 
which last was a sheet of foolscap much scril)- 
bled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to 
make a copy of verses in honor of the lieiress of 
Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic 
scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by 
Hans Van Ripper; who from that time for^vard de- 
termined to send his cliildren no more to scliool ; 
observing, that he never kncAv any good come 
of this same reading and Avnitrng. Whatever 
money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had i-e- 
ceived his quarter's pay but a day or two before, 
he must have had about his person at the time 
of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation 
at the church on the following Srmday. Knots 
of gazers and gossips were collected in tiie 
churchyard, at the bridge, and at tlie spot where 
the hat and pumpkin had been found. The 
stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole bud- 
get of others, were called to mind ; and when 
they had diligently considered them all, and 
compared them with the symptoms of llse 
present case, they shook their heads, and came to 
the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried olT 
by the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bache 
lor, and in nobody's debt, nobody ti-oubJed hii« 



196 . THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

head any more about him. The school ^yas re- 
moved to a different quarter of the Hollow, anr) 
another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been dowii 
to New York on a visit seveiul years after, and 
from whom this account of the ghostly adventure 
was received, brought home the intelligence that 
Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that he had left 
the neighborhood, partly through fear of the gob- 
tin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortifi- 
cation at having been suddenly dismissed by the 
heiress ; that he had changed his quarters to a 
distant part of the country ; had kept school and 
studied law at the same time, had been admitted 
to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written 
for the newspapers, and finally had been made a 
justice of the Ten Poimd Court. Brom Bones 
too, wdio shortly after his rival's disappearance 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to 
the altar, was observed to look exceeding know- 
ing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, 
and always burst into a hearty laugh at the men- 
tion of the pumpkin ; which led some to susj)ect 
that he knew more about the matter than he 
eliose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the 
best judges of these matters, maintain to this day 
that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatui-al 
means ; and it is a favorite story often told a])Oiit 
the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. 
The bridge became more than ever an object of 
superstitious awe, and that may be tlie reason why 
the road has been altei-ed of late years, so as ia 



POSTSCRIPT. 497 

approach the church by tlie border of the mill- 
pond. The school-house, being deserted, soon fell 
to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the 
ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and the 
ploughboy, loitering homeward of a still summer 
evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, 
chanting a melancholy psalm -tune among the 
tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise •wo^d^ 
in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of th«j 
ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present manv 
of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator 
was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper- 
and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one 
whom I strongly suspected of being poor, — he made such 
efforts to be entertaining. When his storNf- was concluded, 
there was much laughter and approbation, particularly 
from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep 
the greater part of the time. There was, however, one 
tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, 
who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout : 
now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and look- 
ing down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his 
mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh, 
but upon good grounds — when they have reason and the 
law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the com- 
pany had subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one 
arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other akimbo, 
demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the 
head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of 
the story, and what it went to prove? 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine 
to his lips," as a refreshment after his foils, paused for a 
moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite def- 
erence, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, ob- 
served, that the story was intended most logically to 
prove : — 

32 



498 THE SKF.TCn-LODK. 

• " That there is no situation in life but has its advantages 
and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we 
and it : 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers 
is likely to have rough riding of it. 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand 
of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in 
the state." _ 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer 
after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratioci- 
nation of the syllogism; while, methought, the one in pep- 
per-and-salt eyed hira with something of a triuraphart 
leer. At length he observed, that all this was very well, 
but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant 
— there were one or two points on which he had his doubts. 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that matter, 
I don't believe one half of it mvself." 

D. K. 



V ENVOY. 499 



L'ENVOY. 




Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Bdle Dame sans Mercie, 

iN concluding a second volume of the 
Sketch-Book, the Author cannot but ex- 
press his deep sense of the indulgence 
with which his first has been received, and of the 
liberal disposition that has been evinced to treat 
him Avith kindness as a stranger. Even the crit- 
ics, whatever may be said of them by others, he 
has found to be a suigularly gentle and good-na- 
tured race ; it is true that each has in turn ob- 
jected to some one or two articles, and that these 
individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, 
would amount almost to a total condemnation of 
his work ; but then he has been consoled by ob- 
serving, that what one has particularly censured, 
another has as particularly praised ; and thus, the 
encomiums being set off against the objections, he 
finds his work, upon the whole, commended far 
beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting 
♦ Closing the second rolnme of the Lon Ion edition. 



500 TUE SKETm-nOOK. 

much of tliis kind favor by not following the 
counsel that has been liberally bestowed upon 
liira ; for where abundance of valuable advice is 
given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if ho 
should go astray. He can only say, in his vindi- 
cation, that he faithfully determined, for a time, 
to govern himself in his second volume by the 
opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon 
brought to a stand by the contrariety of excellent 
counsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the 
ludicrous ; another to shun the pathetic ; a third 
assured him that he was tolerable at description, 
but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; while 
a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack 
at turning a story, and was really entertaining 
when in a pensive mood, but was grievously mis- 
taken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit 
of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, 
who each in turn closed some particular path, but 
left him all the world beside to range in, he found 
that to follow all their counsels would, in fact, be 
to stand still. He remained for a time sadly 
embarrassed ; when, all at once, the thought 
struck him to ramble on as he had begun ; that 
his work being miscellaneous, and written for 
different humors, it could not be expected that 
any one would be pleased with the whole ; but 
that if it should contain something to suit each 
reader, his end would be completely answered. 
Few guests sit down to a varied table with an 
equal appetite for every dish. One has an elegant 
horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a curry ot 



VENVor. 50 1 

A devil in utter abomination ; a tliird cannot toler- 
ate tiie ancient flavor of venison and wild-fowl ; 
and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, lookg 
with sovereign contempt on thosie knickknacks, 
here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus 
each article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, 
amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does a dish 
go away from the table without being tasted and 
relished by some one or other of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve 
up this second volume in the same heterogeneous 
way with his first ; simply requesting the reader, 
if he should find here and there something to 
please him, to rest assured that it was written 
expressly for intelligent readers like himself; but 
entreating him, should he find anything to dislike, 
to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the 
author has been obliged to wi*ite for readers of a 
less refined taste. 

To be serious. — The author is conscious of 
the numerous faults and imperfections of his 
work ; and well aware how little he is disciplined 
and accomplished in the arts of authorship. His 
deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence 
arising from his pecidiar situation. He finds him- 
self writing in a strange land, and appearing be- 
fore a public which he has been accustomed, from 
childhood, to regard Avith the highest feelings of 
awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to 
ieserve theu' approbation, yet finds that very so- 
licitude continually embarrassing his powers, and 
depriving him of that ease and^ confidence which 
are necessary to successful exertion. Still the 



502 



THE &KETC11-B00K. 



kindness with which he is treated encourages him 
to go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a 
Bteadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, half ven- 
turing, half shrinking, surprised at his cwn good 
fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. 




APPENDIX. 503 



APPENDIX. 



NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, 
ander the dominion of the Saxons, was in a state of bar- 
barism and idolatry, Pope Gregorj' the Great, struck with 
the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths exposed for sale 
in the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for the 
race, and determined to send missionaries to preach the 
gospel among these comely but benighted islanders. He 
was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, king of 
Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, 
had married Bertha, a Christian princess, only daughter of 
the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation 
the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd Pontiff knew the influence of the sex in 
matters of religious faith. He forthwith despatched Au- 
gustine, a Roman monk, with forty associates, to the court 
of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to effect the conversion of the 
king and to obtain through him a foothold in the island. 

Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference 
in the open air; being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, 
and fearful of spells and magic. They ultimately succeeded 
in making him as good a Christian as his wife; the conver- 
sion of the king of course produced the conversion of his 
loyal subjects. The zeal and success of Augustine were re- 
warded by his being made archbishop of Canterbury, and 
being endowed with authority over all the British churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert of 
Sebert, king of the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert 
He reigned at London, of which Mellitus, one of the Ro- 
man monks who had conio over with Augustine, was made 
bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery 
by the river-side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a 
temple of Apollo, being, in fact, the origin t»f the present 
pile of Westminster Abbey. Great preparations were made 
Ibr the consecration of the church, which was to be dedi- 
,'Ated to St. Peter. On the morning of tb<i appointed day 



504 THE SKETtE-BOOK. 

Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded with great pomp and so1em.< 
nity to peiibrm the ceremony. On approaching the edifice 
he was met by a fisherman, who informed him that it was 
needless to proceed, as the cereinon\' was over. The bistop 
stared with surprise, when the fisherman went on to relate, 
that tlie night before, as he was in his boat on the Thames, 
St. Peter appeared to him, and told him that he intended to 
consecrate the church himself, that very night. The apostle 
accordingly went into the church, which suddenly became 
illuminated. The ceremony was performed in sumptuous 
style, accompanied by strains of heavenly music and clouds 
of fragrant incense. After this, the apostle came into the 
boat and ordered the fisherman to cast his net. He did so, 
and had a miraculous draught of fishes; one of which he 
was commanded to present to the bishop, and to signify to 
him that the apostle had relieved him from the necessity of 
consecrating the church. 

IMellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required 
confirmation of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church- 
doors, and beheld wax candles, crosses, holy water; oil 
sprinkled in various places, and various other traces of 
a grand ceremonial. If he had still any lingering doubts, 
they were completely removed on the fisherman's produc- 
ing the identical fish which he had been ordered by the 
apostle to present to him. To resist this would have been 
to resist ocular demonstration. The good bishop accord- 
ingly was convinced that the church had actually been 
consecrated by St. Peter in person; so he reverently abstained 
ti-om proceeding further in the business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why 
King Edward the Confessor chose this place as the site of a 
religious house which he meant to endow. He pulled down 
the old church and built another in its place in 1045. lu 
this his remains were deposited in a magnificent shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a 
reconstruction, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume 
its present appearance. 

Under Henry VHI. it lost its conventual character, that 
monarch turning the monks away, and seizing upon the 



RELICS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR. 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the 
•jhoristers of the cathedral, who appears to have been the 
Paul Pry of the sacred edifice, giving an account of his 
rummaging among the bones of Edward the Confessor^ 
*flter they had quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards 
•f six hundred years, and of his drawing forth the crucifi-' 



APPENDIX. 505 

»nd golden chain of the deceased monarch. Dnr.ng eigh 
teen years that he had olKeiated in the choir, i( had been 4 
common tradition, he says, among hm brother choristers ancj 
the gray-headed servants of" the abbey, that the body of 
King Edward was deposited in a ]<^iiid of chest or colHn, 
wliich was indistinctly seen in the upper part of tlie shrine 
erected to his memory. None of the abbey gossips, how- 
ever, had ventured upon a nearer inspection, until thj 
worLliy narrator, to gratify his curiosity mounted to tha 
coffin by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of 
wood, apparently very strong and firm, being secured by 
bands of iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaflTolding 
used in the coronation of James II., the coffin was found 
to be broken, a hole appearing in the lid, probably made, 
through accident, by the workmen. No one ventured, 
however, to meddle 'with the sacred depository of royaT 
dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the circumstance camo 
to tlie knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwitl 
repaired to the abbey in company with two friends, of con 
genial tastes, who were desirous of inspecting the tombs 
Procuring a ladder, he again mounted to the coffin, and found 
as had been represented, a hole in the lid about six inches 
long and four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. 
Thrusting in his hand, and groping among the bones, he 
drew from underneath the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned 
and enamelled, affixed to a gold chain twenty-four inches 
long. These he showed to his inquisitive friends, who were 
equally surprised with himself. 

" At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain 
out of the coffin, / drew the head to the hole and viewed it, 
being very sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws 
whole and full of teeth, and a list of gold above an inch 
broad, in the nature of a coronet, surrounding the temples. 
There was also in the coffin, white linen and gold-colored 
flowered silk, that looked indifterent fresh; but the least 
stress put thereto shoAved it was wellnigh perished. There 
were all his bones, and much dust likewise, which I left as I 
found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to hu- 
man pride than the skull of Edward the Confessor thug 
irreverently pulled about in its coffin by a prying choristor, 
ind brought to grin face to face with him through a hole in 
the lid! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the cru- 
cifix and chain back again into the coffin, and sought the 
lean, to apprise him of his discovery. The dean not being 
accessible at the time, and fearing that the "holy treasure" 
Ottight be taken away by other hands, he got a brother 
horister to accompany him to the shrine about two or tliiee 



506 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

hours afterwards, and in his presence again drew forth the 
relics. These he afterwards delivered on his knees to King 
James. The king subsequently had the old coffin inclosed 
in a new one of great strength: "each plank being two 
inches thick and cramped together with large iron wedges, 
where it now remains (1G88) as a testimony of his pious care, 
that no abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein 
deposited." 

As the historj' of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a 
description of it in modern times. " The solitar}"- and for- 
lorn shrine," says a British writer, "now stands a mere 
skeleton of what it was. A few faint traces of its sparkling 
decorations inlaid on solid mortar catches the rays of the 

sun, forever set on its splendor Only two of the 

spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much broken, 
and covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away in 
every part within reach, only the lozenges of about a foot 
square and five circular pieces of the rich marble remain."— 
Malcom, Lond. rediv. 



INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO 
m THE SKETCH. 

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess 
his second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was 
Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Col- 
chester, a noble family; for all the brothers were valiant, 
and all the sisters virtuous. This Duchess was a wise, witt}'-, 
and learned lady, which her many Bookes do well testify : 
she was a most virtuous, and loving and careful wife, and 
was with her lord all the time of his banishment and 
miseries, and when he came home, never parted from him in 
his solitary retirements. 



In the winter time, when the days are shert, the service 
in the afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The 
effect is fine of the choir partially lighted up, while the 
main body of the cathedral and the transepts are in pro- 
found and cavernous darkness. The white^dresses of the 
choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the open slats 
and canopies; the partial illumination makes enormous 
shadows from columns and screens, and darting into the 
surrounding gloom, catches here and there upon a sepul- 
shral decoration, or monumental effigy. The swelling notes 
fif the organ accord well with the scene. 

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to hia 
iwelling, in the old conventual part of the pile, by the 



APPENDIX. 507 

boys of the choir, in their white dresses, beanng tapers, and 
the procession passes through tlie abbey and along the shad- 
owy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and grim sepul- 
chral monuments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 



On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the 
Dean's Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage 
catches a distant view of a white marble figure reclining on 
a tomb, on which a strong glare thrown by a gas-light has 
quite a spectral effect. It is a mural monument of one of t)ic 
Pultneya. 



'./'S 



iBiiiiL 

016 117 670 9 



